


Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry

by rambunctiousragamuffin



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Breathplay, CBT, Caning, I did say sin right, I say kinda b/c while he's over the age of consent he's still under the age of majority, M/M, author has a shameless shame kink how ironic is that, blatant misery porn, gratuitous religious imagery, inappropriate use of a confessional stall, inappropriate use of rosary beads, it's a dead daddy priest kink fic so don't say I didn't warn you, kinda underage, so much sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rambunctiousragamuffin/pseuds/rambunctiousragamuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Forgive me. I feel it again, the call to Temptation. Show me again the path of the Righteous. Show me, Holy Father, the path of the Light. Help me, Holy Father. I am being torn apart.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>If Father Ben is having a Crisis of Conscience, how can he be expected to shepherd his flock to Salvation? He devoted himself to the Lord long ago, when the Lord saved him both literally and figuratively, and that's one hell of an debt to repay. One that is not abandoned lightly, either. Parish the thought.</p><p>But as of late, he's been more and more disillusioned by the institution of organised Religion. Surely the Lord wouldn't mind if Ben continued to serve Him in his own way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> pidgy did three wonderful pieces but two of them are kind of spoilerific so I've stuck em where appropriate (y)

When Hux awakened that morning, sticky and spent, he knew that the shadowy spectre of shame and guilt would loom over him for the rest of the day. It would be one that he would carry with him on his shoulders along with the weight of empty satisfaction. He peeled off the sheets that were clinging to his sweaty skin much like the flash of dark eyes and even darker hair clung to his memory, and he winced when he felt the mess of crusting cum in his pants that served as empirical evidence of him having had yet _another_ sinfully sordid dream. So, it figured that it would be _today_ of all days that the months of Brendol Hux the Second’s pining would finally culminate in a torrid affair just as tempestuous as the weather outside.

 

The weather was like a reprise on the Old Testament, the rain-swollen cloud cover hanging heavily upon the world reminiscent of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Fierce winds were whipping Hux’s cold, rain-dampened hair into his face, and he drew his school blazer closer around himself to try and shelter himself from the chill. The muddy earth squelched underfoot as he tried to avoid any particularly pernicious puddles, his step unsure. An awkward roll of his ankle caused his footing to slip, and he threw out his arms for counter-balance. He managed to right himself before he fell, but one of his shoes got caught in the event horizon of a muddy hole.

 

His lip curled in a sneer of cold derision as he tugged on his leg but could not manage to free his foot. Hux then tried _kicking_ his way out, but only managed to wedge his shoe further into the wet ground. He threw his arms up into the air and cried out in wordless frustration, pleading to whichever deity may be deigning to listen. Cold, wet, and indignant, Hux was still prideful, even as he bent over to retrieve his shoe and had to resort to digging it out of the mud with his fingers. It was repugnant and humiliating.

 

Standing upright, he did his best to shake the mud off of his hands, using the rain to help wash off whatever was left. By this point, Hux had been caught out in the rain for so long that his white-button up was so wet that it would have been translucent, had it not been for the scratchy woollen jumper he was wearing on top. He gave the mud a spiteful kick, but misgauged how much force he had put into it and sent himself careening buttocks-first into the mud.

 

Today was supposed to be much like Any Other Friday. He was supposed to have been at the school chapel by now, completing his supplications to the Lord. On Any Other Friday, he would have been reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries, thumbing the rosewood rosary beads he had inherited from his mother, with his lips moving minutely as he delivered each prayer. But _today_ , he was scrabbling and scrambling for purchase on the slippery ground, trying to regain his footing and dignity, both.

 

He was so preoccupied with wallowing in umbrage that he didn’t notice Father Ben leaving the parish house with an umbrella until the priest was standing right in front of him and offering a hand to help Hux up off of the ground. It was bad enough that he had been sent sprawling out of the mud--and there was mud in places where Hux would have rathered there would never be mud--but to top it all off, he was now staring dumbly at Father Ben’s hand and his shame was being witnessed. A small, vindictive part of him, was half-tempted to pull Father Ben into the mud with him so that he would not be alone in his misery.

 

His shame was being witnessed, and not by just _anyone_ , either. If it had been any of his classmates, or teammates from the debate team, or even just someone he had once met in passing in the hallways, Hux would have blithely ignored them. Or, if it had been one of this teachers or any of the other staff members of the school, he would have politely thanked them for their pity but ultimately declined their offer of assistance. But, no. It _had_ to be Father Ben. The only person--well, only _living_ person--that Hux absolutely did not want to find him in such a sorry state.

 

It wasn’t just the shame of being bested by the weather, but being in such an unpresentable state of dishabille and the associated loss of dignity in front of someone whose respect he desired so earnestly. That was a lie. Hux didn’t _desire_ Father Ben’s respect. He _craved_ it.

 

There were other things that he craved from Father Ben, but he refused to allow himself to acknowledge them.

 

“No thank you,” huffed Hux, his words a callous dismissal of the priest’s altruistic gesture. Father Ben dropped his outstretched arm and shrugged nonchalantly, but his smile changed. It morphed from something timid and fragile to something _brittle_ , almost. It was still soft, and Hux would even dare say it was _fond_ , but there was a sad edge to it which distinctly discomfited Hux, and he had to avert his gaze. Somehow, that transformation cut Hux to the quick even more so than Father Ben’s pity had, that he had _chased_ the small token of pity away.

 

This was _Hux’s_ embarrassment, and Father Ben was just trying to help--he didn’t deserve Hux’s ire. However, the priest was no longer looking at Hux, instead staring forlornly down at his feet and Hux had no choice but to plant his palms more firmly on the ground behind him, and attempt to push himself up out of the mud. But Hux’s legs were spread too far apart for him to gain the leverage that he needed to lift himself from the slippery earth and he was sent sprawling out again. Not for the first time--and definitely not for the last--Hux admonished himself for being so prideful.

 

Begrudgingly, guilty for letting his pride offend Father Ben when he was just trying to _help_ him, _Hux_ was the one to extend his arm. He felt rather foolish doing so, because Father Ben wasn’t even looking at him, and he wasn’t sure if the Priest would be able to see it in his periphery. Hux could feel his arm wavering just like his will, but just as he was about to lower it… Father Ben’s shot out and he _snatched_ Hux’s hand in his.

 

The priest threaded their fingers together and Hux was about to voice protest, but then Father Ben was bodily _yanking_ Hux to his feet. The force with which Hux’s arm was tugged caused him to wince slightly, also very nearly causing Hux to crash into the priest, and Hux had to put his free hand on Father Ben’s shoulder to help steady himself. It was only for a scant second that Hux allowed his hand to remain in Father Ben’s before he snatched it away, but it was so warm and _comfortable_ , if curiously calloused for a man of the cloth.

 

If he stuck his hand in his trouser pocket after shaking his arm out, well, it was because it was cold and _not_ because he wasn’t sure of his ability to not reach out for the priest’s hand again. But Hux didn’t step back, instead remaining in Father Ben’s space, close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him even through his coat. The warmth of the priest’s breath wafting over his face reminded Hux of how drenched and chilled he was, and a great shiver wracked through his body.

 

“Thanks,” mumbled Hux, fastidiously avoiding looking directly at Father Ben, instead looking just over his shoulder. Hux’s attention was drawn to Father Ben’s arm when he lifted it as if to reach out and place it on Hux’s back, only to think better of it just at the last moment. Hux followed the movement of the umbrella when Father Ben swapped it between hands, his gaze zeroing in when the hand holding it flexed. Shoving his other hand into a coat pocket in an unconscious imitation of Hux’s gesture, Father Ben plastered a fake smile to his face.

 

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

Hux’s eyes snapped up to look at Father Ben--when had his head drooped down?--but this time, it was the priest who was looking away. He was looking towards the parish house and Hux waited for Father Ben to be the first to move. Father Ben waited for Hux to move. Neither of them did.

 

They both just stood there, underneath Father Ben’s umbrella--though it only helped with the precipitation from above, and did nothing to shelter them against the rain being blown against them by the wind. Hux was still looking at Father Ben, and his eyes flitted down to the Priest’s mouth when Father Ben chewed on his lip. Embarrassed by where he was focusing his gaze, Hux turned to look towards the parish house as well. But his gaze did not stray for long, his attention soon returning to Father Ben as if commanded by some higher power.

 

Hux was far too distracted by the way that this one fat droplet of rain was trickling down the aquiline curve of the bridge of Father Ben’s nose to notice that he had turned his own attention back to Hux. In fact, he noticed little else, the rest of the world fading away as he focused in on that one droplet. The rain falling around him muted into white noise, and in that moment, the rushing of blood in his ears roared louder than the claps of thunder echoing around the sky. In that moment, he was only cognizant of Father Ben’s calm breaths ghosting over his face in contrast to his own far less collected breathing.

 

His entire world, his entire reality, was just that one little drop. That one little drop that was slowly trickling down Father Ben’s nose, trailing its merry little way along his skin and leaving a tail of water in its wake… it was about halfway down Father Ben’s nose nose, and it was slowly continuing its arduous odyssey towards the tip. Father Ben was blushing now, whether from the cold or the intense scrutiny, Hux couldn’t say. Even if he had noticed--which he hadn’t, because he was still too distracted by tracking this _one_ rain droplet with his eyes.

 

That one little drop that was trickling and trailing down Father Ben’s nose was now beginning to coalesce on the tip. Hux held his breath, waiting for it to fall, but he never saw it, as his reverie was broken by the priest speaking to him.

 

“What?” Asked Hux, inelegantly. He had registered that Father Ben had spoken, but his brain didn’t quite parse just precisely _what_ the priest had said. He was far too enraptured in the epic pilgrimage of that one specific rain droplet.

 

Hux’s gaze flitted down to Father Ben’s lips when he saw the brief dart of a pink tongue lapping at a raindrop that was dripping down his philtrum, and when Hux managed to bring himself to raise his gaze to Father Ben’s eyes-- _oh_.

 

There were droplets clinging to Father Ben’s eyelashes, too. In order for them both to fit under the umbrella, they had to stand close enough for Hux to be able to count each individual eyelash and each individual raindrop hanging off of them, if he was of a mind to. But Hux’s gaze was drawn back to the priest’s lips once more as he licked them again before speaking.

 

“I said that I’ll race you.”  
  
“I--what. Race me?”

 

Father Ben bowed his head slightly, almost resting his forehead on Hux’s, leaving just the smallest sliver of space between them. He looked up at Hux from under lowered lashes with a slightly sheepish smile on his lips, and Hux found he couldn’t _breathe_ like this, staring directly into Father Ben’s eyes with their faces this close together. Not unless he wanted to breathe in Father Ben’s breath...

 

“Yeah. To the parish house.”  
  
Hux wasn’t sure where he found the breath to scoff derisively at Father Ben’s offer, but as he did, Father Ben took a half a step backwards while nodding sadly to himself. He didn’t step far enough back that Hux was no longer under the cover of the umbrella, but just enough so that they weren’t pressed nose-to-toe against each-other and so that Father Ben could swap the umbrella between hands again.

 

Hux tried to tell himself that he only missed the priest’s warmth because his uniform had been soaked through by the rain, and because he was cold and wet. He tried to tell himself that those were the only reasons why he was miserable at the loss.

 

Father Ben used his recently-freed hand--the one that he used to help Hux up off of the ground, the hand that he had almost placed on Hux’s back--to rub nervously at the nape of his neck. The only thing worse than Father Ben rescuing him like some sort of damsel in distress was the idea that _Hux_ had hurt Ben’s feelings. The idea that _Hux_ was responsible for Ben’s pain… well, it was almost unbearable.

 

But he refused to apologise because it would mean acknowledging and admitting that hurting Father Ben also hurt _him_. Trying to save face he brought his fist up to his mouth and coughed weakly, feigning cleaning his throat in an attempt to disguise his scoff.

 

“I’ve--” Father Ben’s studiously nonchalant expression when the priest lifted his head to look at Hux caused his words to get tangled in his throat, and he needed to clear his throat for real. “I’ve only got one shoe.”

 

Father Ben’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before the realisation of what Hux meant hit him. Hux could practically see the dawning realisation on the priest’s face with the way his eyes alighted with mischief and his lips quirked into an impish grin.

 

“Here, hold this,” Father Ben said, all but thrusting the umbrella into Hux’s hands. Before Hux could question Father Ben’s motives--or more importantly, _protest against them_ \--he felt a strong arm wrap around his back just below his shoulder blades, and another underneath his knee and suddenly… suddenly he was in Father Ben’s arms in a bridal-style carry. It was absolutely undignified, only compounding the fact that Hux was covered in mud and missing a shoe. Somehow, it managed to make a terrible situation infinitely worse.

 

It was completely undignified and Hux did not find a sense of comfort, of _safety_ in being held in Father Ben’s strong arms. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he really was capable of walking over to the parish house on his own two feet, even if only one was currently shod. Hux absolutely did _not_ need a _priest_ of all things to carry him, and he absolutely did not squeak when Father Ben pretended to drop him, only to readjust his hold on Hux.

 

“Stop writhing,” Father Ben said, his voice and face tight with discomfort, as Hux tried to make himself more comfortable in Father Ben’s arms.

 

“I’m not _writhing_ ,” Hux challenged, even as he wriggled once more, accidentally brushing more firmly against Father Ben this time. The priest’s stride faltered mid-step, and Hux was worried for a moment that they would both be sent sprawling into the mud so he halted his movements.

 

“I can put you down,” Father Ben said, looking down at Hux in his arms, with his brow half raised.

 

“I wish you would,” Hux replied, especially considering that they were now standing in front of the parish house door, and Father Ben had no more reason to keep Hux in his arms. As grateful as he was for Father Ben’s assistance, it was awfully uncomfortable: Father Ben’s muscular arms were digging into his his body, and being held close enough to the priest’s body so that they were both under the umbrella meant that Hux’s hip collided with Father Ben’s on almost every stride; there was also the constricting confinement where his cock was pressing up against the zipper of his uniform trousers; to say nothing of Hux’s embarrassment over his excitement at Father Ben’s display of strength and his simultaneous fear that his arousal would be discovered.

 

“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you,” Father Ben said, an exaggerated innocence on his face. Hux scowled up at the priest for his gumption, his _gall_. The two of them were so close together that Hux _knew_ that Father Ben had heard, and was just being obstinately obtuse.

 

“Please,” Hux entreated, simply. He attempted to pair it with a pleading smile, but it quickly evolved into a rictus as Father Ben accidentally shuffled him just _so,_ so that the pressure on his prick was on the wrong side of painful.

 

“Please what?”

 

“Please put me down,” Hux huffed. For a moment Father Ben stubbornly didn’t move, and Hux was worried that he was just being contrary. He was half-contemplating elbowing his message across--the height that he was being held at meant that the gesture would contact directly with the priest’s sternum. But Father Ben set Hux down on his feet with a snort. As he slid down the front of the priest, just for a moment, his back was pressed to Father Ben’s front, and Father Ben’s front was surprisingly… rigid. Hux pressed back, just to double check, because there was _no way_ \--

 

Now it was the Priest’s turn to cough awkwardly, and he gently placed one--very large--hand on one of Hux’s slim hips to gently guide him away to stand beside the door to the parish house while he rooted around in his pocket for his keys with the other.

 

“Fuck,” mumbled Father Ben.

 

Hux stared him down, boggling slightly at the way that Father Ben’s tongue seemed to _wrap_ itself around the expletive.

 

“I can report you for that kind of language, you know.”

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell if you won’t,” Father Ben said, winking at Hux over his shoulder as he moved to kneel down before the door handle. Hidden under the awning of the parish house, Hux was offered some degree of protection from the precipitation, and he took the opportunity to close the umbrella and place it by the door.

 

“That’s--that’s not how it _works_ ,” Hux complained, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. “And what are you _doing?_ ”

 

Tapping his foot impatiently whilst waiting for Father Ben to respond, Hux’s mind wandered to just how perplexing the entire situation was. Hux didn’t know what he was more confused by: the fact that Father Ben had forgotten his keys and consequently locked himself out of the parish house; the fact that he was not only picking the lock of the parish house, but that he knew how to pick locks in the first place; or the fact that Father Ben had just _bridal carried him_ _in the rain_.

 

“I forgot my keys,” was all that Father Ben said, not even looking up from where he was trying to jimmy the lock to the parish house with a set of tools that he seemed to have pulled from out of nowhere. That was somehow even more confounding--Father Ben forgot his keys, but kept a lockpicking set upon his person?

 

But before he could string a coherent question together, the door opened and Father Ben was shuffling Hux inside. Immediately, he shucked his blazer and hung it on the coat stand by the door. No sense in dripping all over the place, Hux figured. Then, he bent down to untie the one shoe that he _was_ wearing. No sense in tracking mud all over the place, either. It was an arduous process, his fingers were so cold that they were numb and trembling, and it made unlacing his shoe difficult.

 

Wait. _Shoe_. Hux stilled, and Father Ben looked at him questioningly from the doorway. Hux looked up at the priest whilst concurrently gesturing dumbly down to his _one_ shoe, and Father Ben dashed out of the door again and out under the rain without giving Hux the chance to clarify. He didn’t even stop to grab his umbrella, just sprinted out to dredge Hux’s shoe up from the mud.

 

Hux was grateful that there was no-one else within earshot to hear the small, pitiful whimper that escaped him at seeing Father Ben bent over in such a manner, on all fours in the mud with his trousers clinging wetly to his… legs. Father Ben seemed to have more luck extricating the shoe from the soaking wet sward than Hux had, and turned to wave his trophy at Hux in triumph.

 

Hux could only respond with a tight grin that Father Ben probably couldn’t even see from that distance. He thought about maybe giving the priest a thumbs up, as well, but by the time Hux managed to regain enough motor control to, Father Ben was panting in the doorway.

 

For a moment, Hux was struck with the bizarre desire to reach out and place his palm on Father Ben’s heaving chest, the desire to feel his frantic heartbeat with his fingertips. Hux also had the perverse urge to sweep the stray lock of Father Ben’s hair that had fallen out of its place in the priest’s bun and was curling wetly against his cheek. Hux’s own hair was a messy mop upon his head, dangling wetly in front of his eyes. Hux was not vain, but he was proud, and his pride was wounded by the sorry state that he found himself in.

 

He was cold, wet, and miserable, and he figured that he was allowed to feel pitiful for himself, just this once. He didn’t know what he would have done if Father Ben hadn’t come to his rescue, as much as he hated to admit that he _had_ been a damsel in distress that needed to be quite literally swept off of his feet. Or, arse, rather.

 

The mud that had soaked into his uniform was still wet, and unless the rain let up today, would _remain_ wet, hanging heavily upon him and weighing him down all day. Hux didn’t even want to think about the state of his undergarments, and firmly resolved that the first thing he would do in the afternoon, after classes, would be to take a shower in his dorms. He just had to survive the rest of the day, first.

 

Hux was feeling sorry enough for himself to allow the realisation that any hopes he might have had--not that he had ever allowed himself to acknowledge them, because they were _Improper_ \--of holding Father Ben’s… _favour_ have been dashed by the situation at present. He was in such a bedraggled state that the only thing that Father Ben could possibly feel for him was pity, and that was not conducive to seduction. The realisation that Hux had only allowed himself to recognise his burgeoning… affections for the priest in order to admit to himself that they could never be reciprocated was painful, to say the least.

 

Hux nodded his head at Father Ben in thanks as the priest started shucking his coat, his vocal chords seemingly as frozen as his fingers, and he turned to squelch down the wooden floorboards of the hallway towards the linen closet. Having had practically grown up in the parish house--back when his father had been the Father of the school--Hux knew his way around the small cottage. All at once, it was completely the same down to the watermark on the ceiling and the rickety floorboard right at the end of the hallway, and it was completely different. There was an emptiness to it, even though it was still just as austerely furnished, that Hux couldn’t quite name.

 

As he plodded along, he ended up leaving a little wet trail behind him despite his efforts to mitigate it. There was nothing for his uniform, the trousers were too muddy, and the already uncomfortable woollen jumper was even _more_ uncomfortable, wetly weighing down on him. But he could at least use a towel to dry his hair.

 

Rather than dripping water on the towel from his jumper, he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows--button-up and all. As he reached up to dry his hair, the hemline of his jumper rode up and his shirt became untucked _just_ enough to reveal a slim sliver of pale skin above his waistband. His hair was going to be even more of a mess from drying it, but at least it wouldn’t be a _wet_ mess any more, and Hux tried to console himself with that small fact. It was just one small comfort against today’s confluence of miseries, however.

 

Hux had lied to himself when he tried to convince himself that today was Any Other Friday. Today was also the second anniversary of his father’s death--not suicide. He couldn’t bring himself to even _think_ that word. That a man of the cloth would take his own life in that manner… It didn’t do to think about.

 

Hux just wanted to recite his rosary before Father Ben’s sermon, and go about today like Any Other Friday, but instead, he had found himself in the parish house, soaked to the bone and being stared at as he dried his hair. Oh, he couldn’t _see_ Father Ben staring at him, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Frankly, at this point, he was almost past caring. His pride was already so bruised that short of bending him over and caning him, there was little Father Ben could do to shame him any further.

 

Hux let himself take a moment underneath the towel, pretending that the physical boundary of the towel over his head was equally metaphorical--that everything outside of the towel didn’t exist, that it was just him and the darkness. He could not ignore everything else for very long, however, as a quiet cough reminded Hux that he was not alone. Father Ben had been wonderfully patient so far, Hux would have been remiss in his etiquette in repaying him with impertinence. So, he stopped hiding under the towel and turned to face Father Ben who was holding a small pile of clothing in his arms.

 

Hux looked from the proffered clothing up to Father Ben, and back to the clothing again. It would do, Hux supposed. The white shirt that was being offered looked similar enough to his own to suit his needs, and the embarrassment from wearing an ill-fitting set of trousers would be far less than wearing his current wet and muddy uniform. As Hux stepped forwards to accept them from Father Ben, his wet socks slipped on the wooden floorboards, and he nearly fell into the Priest. Father Ben threw out one hand from under the pile of clothing to help steady Hux, grasping his bare wrist tightly.

 

Even that minute contact of skin against skin felt like _burning_. Because of how cold Hux was and how warm Father Ben was by comparison, of course. It was simple thermodynamics. It absolutely did not have anything to do with how Hux felt drawn to Father Ben like a moth to a flame. But Father Ben was not just _any_ flame, oh no. He was the brightly burning blaze of a spectacular star, and Hux was just this tiny, insignificant insect helpless against the enigmatically magnetic pull towards his demise. Except, unlike the moth, he was all too cognizant of the fact that he was being drawn towards his doom, completely conscious of the fact that if he dared to allow himself to get _too_ close to the flames of his fervour, he would be seared and scorched until nothing of him remained but smouldering embers of ardour.

 

Hux also did not notice how _rough_ Father Ben’s hand felt, or how big it was--how easily the priest’s fingers surrounded his wrist. Or how _comfortable_ he found his slim wrist caged in by strong fingers to be. How easily they could break him. But would Father Ben put Hux back together again, after?

 

“Thanks,” murmured Hux as he shoved the towel at Father Ben and scooped up the pile of clothing into his own arms before scurrying away to the little bathroom that the parish house had. The tile was cold beneath his feet, and his toes twitched in his wet socks as he stepped further into the bathroom proper and flicked the lights on. He closed the door behind him, but in his haste to shuck his wet clothing, he did not realise that he had not closed it properly, and that a minute gap remained. A minute gap, but one just large enough for Father Ben to catch a glimpse of Hux in the mirror.

 

Hux placed the pile of clothes on the counter by the sink and picked through it. There was a white button-up almost exactly like the one that Hux was already wearing, and the teachers wouldn’t be able to discern the difference between the two. There was also a pair of trousers very similar to the pair that Hux was wearing, except for that the pair that Father Ben had provided were far too large. Not in length, as he and Father Ben were mostly of a height, but around the waist--but Father Ben had seen fit to place a belt in the pile, as well.

 

When Hux saw the pair of plain black cotton boxer briefs nestled discreetly between the shirt and trousers, his face heated up. It was very kind of Father Ben to have offered Hux spare clothing in the first place, but to have offered such a… _personal_ garment embarrassed Hux. It was almost as if the presence of the underwear reminded Hux that they would have been Father Ben’s own possessions, that they would have been Father Ben’s own underwear. Underwear that Father Ben would have worn.

 

Hux’s jumper was the first article that he took off, and the wet wool scratched at his face uncomfortably as he pulled it over his head. But once it was off, Hux felt several kilogrammes lighter now that it wasn’t weighing down upon him. He wrung it out in the big brass clawfoot tub that took up most of the space in the bathroom, before draping it over the side. When Hux nearly slipped--again--on the tile, he figured it was time to take his wet socks off.

 

Keeping one hand on the countertop to counterbalance himself, he half-hunched over to take his first sock off. He had almost succeeded in tugging it off his foot with only minimal mud spray, but Father Ben’s voice coming through the door startled him and he fell backwards, onto his now sore and muddy buttocks.

 

“Why didn’t you have your umbrella, anyway?” Asked Ben. It was a totally innocuous question, and relevant in context, but to Hux, in this moment, it felt as more of an affront. To him, it felt more like “why were you so unprepared? Why were you so uncomposed?”

 

“It got broken,” Hux huffed, trying not to let his pain come through in his tone, but his frustration at his situation still got the better of him and he snapped out a brusque reply. At least his position on the floor gave him better leverage for taking his socks off, even if it did mean that he was leaving a muddy trail on the tiles with each movement like some sort of dirty human slug, and he made a reminder to clean it up after he had gotten changed.

 

“This isn’t related to the incident where Samuels’ cricket bat got broken, is it?”

  
This time, Hux’s huff was more of a half-hearted laugh.  
  
“I cannot confirm nor deny without knowing the specific incident in question, but I will say that old wooden cricket bats are hardly the most structurally sound.” Hux did not think it wise to blatantly lie to a priest, especially in a parish house, but he felt that a certain degree of prevarication would be pragmatic in this circumstance. “You didn’t give me any socks.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it was kind of a weird place to break the chapters, but I wanted to break them for the PoV swap so that u guys didn't have to slog through 10k words in the first chapter
> 
> I've boldly braved HTML to hopefully give you mouse-over text translations, but if they've broken, I've also stuck them in the end note

“Socks,” Ben repeated, dumbly. He was confused by Hux’s statement which had come apropos of nothing.

 

“You know, those things that you wear on your feet?”

 

“Shoes?”

 

“No, I meant the things that you wear  _ underneath _ your shoes.”

 

“Oh, you meant socks.”

 

“No, I meant  _ chausettes _ .” Ben could almost  _ hear _ Hux’s eyes rolling. “Yes, I meant socks.”

 

“Oh, that’s funny, because it sounded like you said  _ chausettes _ .” 

 

This time, Hux’s laugh was a bit more full bodied, a bit more genuine, and Ben took the opportunity to appreciate the way that it reverberated off of the tiles in the bathroom. It made it grander, in a way. It was only a simple joke, but Ben was glad to have amused Hux at all. Something in his chest clenched tightly at the thought of Hux in his current state, and Ben would have carried the cross to Calvary on his back and crucified himself if it would have cheered Hux up even only slightly.

 

Their conversation lulled for a moment, and Ben wracked his brain to try and find some way to keep it going. There was just something about the stagnant silence that felt… not quite  _ oppressive _ , but almost. He replayed the conversation in his mind and--it wasn’t even Ben who ended up breaking the silence, after all, but  _ Hux _ . Ben couldn’t help but feel simultaneously relieved and… and… and some indeterminate, undefinable feeling that was fluttering uncomfortably in his belly.

 

“Parlez-vous français?”

 

“Oui, je sais un peu de français, mais, je le lis plus mieux que je parle.” Ben cleared his throat to gain some time to allow him to mull over the conjugation of the irregular verb “lire,” and to remember where to place the direct object complement pronoun, but it had been years since he had last spoken French. An entire lifetime ago, almost. Back when he had been Ben for the first time, so it  _ had _ been an entire lifetime ago--back before his “life” as Kylo Ren.

 

“Je pense que vous pouvez parler bien,” Hux said, without an ounce of sarcasm or spite. Somehow the authenticity of Hux’s compliment unnerved Ben. Hux was normally so unflappable, so unimpressed. To receive a compliment from him… Well, Ben was just glad that Hux wasn’t able to see the blush that it brought to his face.

 

“Vous pouvez me tutoyer, et appelles-moi 'Ben.'” Ben suddenly had the desire to reciprocate the sentiment, somehow--the desire to reach out to Hux and connect with him emotionally, even if it would be improper to reach out  _ physically _ , given Hux’s current vulnerable state. No,  _ especially _ because it would be improper to reach out physically. Hux needed comfort, not Ben’s selfish desires disguised as overtures of friendship.

 

“Si vous le voulez,” he hastened to add. He still wanted to offer Hux a choice, it  _ had _ to be Hux’s choice. Ben wouldn’t impose himself like that. But when Hux made no response, Ben felt awkward, like he had pushed it too far--despite his every ardent wish not do. He hadn’t meant to drive Hux away, he had wanted the exact opposite. He stood there, outside the parish house bathroom, once more chewing on his lip and deliberating with himself. Ought he to apologise? If Hux was ignoring the comment, maybe he should, too.

 

Or maybe Hux wasn’t ignoring Ben, maybe he just hadn’t heard. Maybe he just hadn’t understood Ben’s broken French?

 

“Oui. Je pense que… je pense que je le  voudrais .”

 

Ben felt like all the air had been knocked out of him at once as relief washed over him.  _ Yes _ .  _ I think I would like that _ . Of course he had just been overthinking the situation. It was all okay.

 

Except, no, it wasn’t okay--Hux had no socks. He should go and get Hux some socks… but his body seemed to be unable to move. Hux might have been nigh on hypothermic from having been out in the rain for so long, but Ben was frozen in place by some preternatural force. He found himself trapped by the door to the parish house bathroom, equally reviling and revelling in how he was spying on Hux through the little sliver of space between the door and the jamb.

 

He had wanted to say that he would go get Hux a pair of socks, but Hux had just stood up and Ben barely caught a flash in the mirror of a dusky pink nipple poking out from under his shirt before he turned his head away.  _ No _ , he admonished himself. How could he ask Hux if he wanted to use the informal “tu” form, only to break his trust in such a sordid manner? He should go and get Hux some socks.

 

But the sight had been so tantalising… Ben would look once more, and if he didn’t get to see another flash of nipple, he would go get Hux some socks. If he did get to see a flash of nipple… Well, he had gotten to see another flash of nipple, and then he would go get Hux some socks.

 

Except, when he looked back at Hux, Ben didn’t catch a glimpse of nipple reflected in the mirror. Instead, what Ben saw was the pale expanse of Hux’s back. There was a smattering of freckles on his shoulders and… scars? What were scars doing crisscrossing Hux’s back?

 

They were old, and faded, and while Hux was a good Catholic, he did not seem to be so pious as to self-flagellate--which meant that someone must have done something to Hux to cause them. Judging by how old they were… Well, it was little wonder that Hux was purported to have held little love for his father.

 

He should go get Hux those socks, now. He got the flash of skin that he had been hoping to see. Really, he had seen far more than he had intended to. Not just more  _ skin _ , but Ben had had an insight into Hux that he had not deserved to see. Not like that.

 

Ben ground his teeth and clenched his fist. Hux deserved better. He deserved better than a father who would treat him like that, and he deserved better than a priest spying on him in the privacy of a bathroom. The bathroom of a parish house, no less!

 

Hux had already removed his shirt, and had moved to undo his fly by the time that Ben finally found the will to move. He would go get those socks. His legs were stiff and it made moving quietly difficult. He did not want Hux to know that Ben had abused his trust in such a manner--and wasn’t that even worse. That he would further abuse Hux’s trust by continuing to keep it a secret, a secret between him and the Lord. Not that it was the kind of thing that he could bring up, even in the sanctity of Confession.

 

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have ignored the privacy of one of my charges and abused his trust by observing him in a very intimate moment.” Ben snorted aloud at the thought, glad that by then he was out of earshot of Hux. His movement had been slow going in between his joints stiff from standing still for so long, and other various… extremities that had taken a tumescent interest, too. No, this would just be one more secret he would take with him to the grave.

 

Ben noticed that he had stopped in the middle of the hallway. What had he been doing? He had gone to go get something… Socks! Socks for Hux.

 

With a renewed vigor and purpose he continued to his bedroom to retrieve a pair of socks from the chest of drawers.  _ Honestly _ , he chastened himself. How could he forget to get Hux a pair of socks? They were in the same drawer as his underwear, and he hadn’t forgotten to give Hux a pair of those.

 

Ben knew why he hadn’t forgotten to give Hux a pair of his underwear, though he refused to acknowledge why. He was only trying to be helpful. He absolutely did not harbor any lascivious thoughts about imagining how well they would fit Hux, or any proprietary sentiments about having such an intimate piece of his clothing on Hux. That would be improper.

 

He grabbed a pair at random--not that he had much variety to choose from. They were all plain, black cotton socks. With the pair in hand, he nodded to himself, and went to go give them to Hux. Unlike when Ben had left him, and he had made efforts to conceal the sounds of his egress, this time he made painstaking effort to make his steps as loud as possible so that Hux would be aware of his arrival.

 

When he knocked on the door, it opened slightly further, and Ben was unwittingly awarded a slightly better view of the mirror and--oh.  _ Oh _ . It seemed that Hux  _ hadn’t _ heard Ben’s approach, because there he was, trying to fit a partially-erect cock into his--into  _ Ben’s _ \--underwear. This time, Ben honestly didn’t intend to cop an eyeful, but the Lord works in mysterious ways.

 

He practically whirled on his heels to turn away and walked to the very end of the hallway, only to pace back to the other. He shook his head as he went, trying to literally shake out the image that seemed to be permanently seared onto his retinas as well as his memory. When that did nothing to help, he tried smacking himself on the forehead to try and  _ force _ it out. But that didn’t help at all, either: whenever he closed his eyes, the reflection of Hux’s hand squeezing his cock so tightly that his knuckles had gone white sprung forth, unwarranted, and unwanted. The constricting confines of his own underwear against his cock was making his pacing uncomfortable, but he refused to allow himself to alleviate it.

 

No. It was an uncomfortable situation and he  _ should _ feel uncomfortable. He should have more control over himself than this. He should have more control than to react in such a… puerile fashion.

 

Suddenly, Ben had an epiphany. He  _ had _ reacted. There’s nothing he could do to change the past--he’d learned that particular lesson the hard way. But he could  _ pretend _ that he hadn’t reacted. He could pretend, and Hux would be none the wiser.

 

He took a few deep, calming breaths to ground himself. Hux was intelligent, Ben wouldn’t insult him by making a half-hearted attempt. He had already insulted Hux enough, he didn’t want to hurt Hux any further. He didn’t take too long to gather himself, however, as Hux was surely finished changing by now, save for the accursed socks he held in his hand.

 

This time as he approached, Ben made even more of an effort to announce his presence. He felt rather immature, practically stomping along the hallway, like he was playing at pretending to be a dinosaur or something equally monstrous and grotesque. But he found that as he approached closer to the door to the parish house bathroom, his resolve was wavering. No, this was ridiculous.

 

He could do this. He  _ had _ to do this--if not for the sake of Hux’s poor, cold feet, then for his own dignity as a host. But still his hand rested just before the door, not making contact. It was only an inch of space--a simple flick of the wrist would alert Hux to his presence.

 

He dropped his fist and clenched it by his side. Honestly, this was so very far past ridiculous. He just needed to give Hux a pair of socks. It was hardly an epic worthy of Homer.

 

His nails were pressing sharply into his palm from where he was clenching his fist, and drew a hiss of pain from between the teeth that he was unconsciously grinding together. He reflexively released his hand and shook it out, accidentally tapping the door with his fingers. It was just a gentle rasp--but it was enough to garner Hux’s attention.

 

“Yes?” Called Hux.

 

“I--I… uh… I have your… socks?” Why did he make it sound like a question? He did in fact have the pair of socks in his hand. It wasn’t a question. It was supposed to be a statement.

 

“Donne-les moi,” Hux commanded. Hux’s imperious tone sent a licentious thrill coursing through Ben, a thin tendril of arousal curling in the bottom of his belly, and Ben faltered halfway through his step into the bathroom.

 

It was a momentary lapse, but Ben saw the way that Hux’s eyes narrowed at him. If Ben didn’t know any better, he would have said it was in concern. But because he  _ did _ know better, Ben figured it was in condescension. He dropped his eyes in embarrassment to Hux’s feet--now slightly blue from the cold--but in the process of trailing down Hux’s body he saw that Hux was still  _ half-cocked _ .

 

A brilliant blush instantly bloomed on Ben’s cheeks, embarrassment now self-evident. So much for keeping his cool.

 

“Here,” Ben said, while thrusting the pair of socks at Hux. He instantly recoiled when he felt the barest brush of Hux’s fingers against his. They were cold, as to be expected, but they were also so  _ soft _ , and tender, and a far too-harsh reminder of Hux’s youth and innocence. Ben’s own were calloused and crooked from a youth of living rough but Hux’s--Hux’s hadn’t yet felt the cumulative effects of a sinful life.

 

It was just a brief brush of skin against skin before Ben all but dropped the pair of socks in Hux’s outstretched hand and turned to flee from the bathroom. He had his back to Hux and was about to step away when he felt a slight tug at the cloth by his elbow. It was barely perceptible, and Ben would not have noticed it had he not been so hyper aware of Hux. Ben stopped, but he could not bring himself to turn around.

 

Ben felt it when Hux dropped his arm, and he keenly felt the loss of its weight. When Hux did not make any further movements, or move to say anything, Ben wrapped his arms around himself and left. If he ended up touching the exact same spot that Hux had, well, it was purely incidental--and if Ben heard Hux’s quiet murmur of thanks as he left the bathroom, he dismissed it as a whim of fancy on his part.

 

Ben went to wait by the front door of the parish house for Hux, slowly donning his damp coat once more. There was still enough time before Ben’s morning sermon for Hux to fit in his personal prayers while he prepared. Of course, the only reason why Ben knew that Hux liked the chance for private devotions was because Hux was a pious student, and Ben could often see him genuflecting before the altar from his office. He had no personal vested interest in Hux’s personal schedule.

 

But the longer that Hux took in the bathroom, the more that Ben worried. He worried that perhaps Hux wouldn’t want to walk over to the chapel from the parish house with him. It was only a few short metres, so Hux wouldn’t get too wet by the rain if he decided not to walk under the protection of Ben’s umbrella with him. But mostly, he worried that he had done something to discomfit Hux, to make him prefer the cold and damp to Ben’s own company.

 

Ben was so engrossed in his worries that he missed Hux shuffling shyly in his socked feet. Like the rest of his clothing that he had loaned Hux, his socks were ill-fitting, and the overall effect was to somehow make Hux appear elfin and even more youthful. Hux stood in front of Ben, nervously avoiding his gaze, looking just over his shoulder at the parish house door behind him and shifting his weight from foot to foot. With a crook of his finger, Ben beckoned Hux closer.

 

With a wary curiosity, Hux stepped forward a step towards Ben, but he was still not close enough. Ben crooked his finger again, and Hux took one more step forwards.  _ Still not close enough _ . Rolling his eyes, Ben closed the gap towards Hux and looped his fingers in the belt loops at the front of Hux’s borrowed trousers and bodily  _ pulled _ him closer. There was a moment there where their bodies were pressed flush against one-another and Ben could feel where Hux still lay half-interested in his--Ben’s--underwear.

 

Oh, the vigour of youth. Some deep, dark, tenebrous recess of his brain found it flattering--but that gloaming, secret part was quietened by the gloomy guilt that Ben felt for leading Hux on in this manner. The evidence was irrefutable, pressed against him like that, and Ben should take a step back and politely disincline Hux of his interest. It would be the right thing to do. The right thing to do in a situation that was already so very, very wrong.

 

Every reflex in his body was yelling at him to press forwards even further, to find some friction, and it was a temptation, an urge, bordering on compulsion. But for once in his life Ben took control and instead stepped back once. Dropping to his knees in front of Hux, Ben blindly reached behind him for Hux’s shoes while refusing to break eye contact. Ben stared up at Hux beseechingly--he  _ needed _ Hux’s permission for this. He  _ needed _ Hux to accept his prostration; it was an act of attrition as much for Ben as it was a benediction for Hux.

 

Hux nodded--just a minute gesture--and Ben reverently took one of Hux’s feet in his hands. Hux had to dig his hands into Ben’s hair to help him keep his balance, and Ben barely choked back a moan. Hux’s foot felt dainty, almost delicate in his far too big, bumbling hands--and Ben was once again reminded about his history of violence by his hands. It would be so  _ easy _ to cause Hux injury…

 

But instead, Ben used his thumb to dig in slightly to the high arch of Hux’s foot, and Hux wasn’t quite as adept as Ben had been at retaining his sound of pleasure. Eager to hear it again, Ben dug his thumb in again, slightly harder, and Hux rewarded Ben with a quick tug to the hair. Ben found himself looking up at Hux again--when had he started looking down?

 

Not for the first time, much to his chagrin, Ben noticed just how  _ pretty _ Hux was, with his coloration and his complexion. Especially now, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly open, the tip of his pink tongue darting out and wetting his lips… Ben let out a shaky breath and rested Hux’s foot on his thigh. Not only did this free Ben’s hand to begin untying the shoelace of Hux’s shoe, but it also meant that Hux had to lean ever closer to Ben in order to keep his balance.

 

Ben was  _ just _ at the right height to see how this was affecting Hux, and he couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Hux huffed in exasperation and moved his foot from where it was resting on Ben’s thigh to where Ben wasn’t quite so unaffected either. When Hux dug the ball of his foot in, Ben let out a high-pitched keen and thrust awkwardly into the pressure. He allowed himself to frot against Hux’s foot like some sort of feral beast, reduced to his profane, primal urges--but just for a moment.

 

When Hux dug in  _ just _ too hard, so that the blurry demarcation of pleasure turned into pain, Ben had an epiphany of clarity, and rushed to pick Hux’s foot up again and gently place it into his shoe. He tied it up deftly, if rushed and gracelessly, and placed Hux’s freshly shod shoe back down on the floor before reaching out for the other; the shoe that had precipitated the whole affair. There was already enough mud on the floor that it didn’t matter if Ben shook it out, so that’s what he did. No point in putting Hux’s foot back into a muddy shoe.

 

Ben released his grasp on Hux’s ankle--and when had that happened? It had felt so comfortable resting his hand on Hux, that he hadn’t even noticed--and used one hand to tap at the toe of the shoe to help dislodge any last ornery bits of mud. But Ben had not thought this through properly, because now his hand was muddy, too. He stared at his muddy hand for a moment, uncomprehendingly, and felt like a fool for it.

 

Sighing dejectedly, he figured he had no choice but to wipe it on his coat. 

 

“You don’t need to do that,” murmured Hux whilst curling his fingers into Ben’s hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. “I’m perfectly capable of putting my own shoes on.”

 

“I know,” was all Ben said in response.

 

He went about the motions of putting Hux’s other shoe on, this time trying to maintain some ostensible modicum of distance. Ben had already taken far too many liberties while he was putting the first shoe on, and he needed to regain control of the situation. Control of himself. It did not take long, and soon he was awkwardly rising to his feet and standing before Hux--who still had his hands in his hair.

 

“I know I didn’t need to. But--” Ben began, but his voice came out far too weak. He awkwardly coughed into his fist, trying to find it again. “But I wanted to. Jesus washed the feet of sinners and his Apostles both…”

 

Hux looked inquisitively at Ben when he trailed off. He shrugged nervously, not too sure what he was even trying to say in the first place.

 

“Are you calling me a sinner, then?” Asked Hux, mirth dancing in his eyes but his expression otherwise stoic.

 

Ben snorted inelegantly and waved a hand to brush his comment off.

 

“It’s okay, I’m a priest. I can absolve you of your sins.” Reaching up, Ben grasped Hux’s wrists in his hands. They were so slight that it would only take the slightest bit of effort, only the smallest bit of pressure for Ben to feel Hux’s bones grind together. It was this reminder of Hux’s fragility that caused Ben to act with an exaggerated care, gently tugging Hux’s hands from where they had nested in his locks.

 

Ben looked straight into Hux’s eyes and gave his wrists a gentle squeeze.

 

“I don’t know why you’d want me to, though. Sinning is so much more fun.”

 

With that, he dropped Hux’s wrists to step back and look appraisingly at Hux, who, flustered, had turned away so that Ben could see the apples of his cheeks flush with colour. He floundered briefly, opening and closing his mouth as if he was trying to say something but thought better of it at the last moment. Ben couldn’t help but wonder about all the things that Hux didn’t say.

 

“Is that your professional advice as a man of the cloth?” Was Hux’s rejoinder, when he finally found the words and the courage to turn back to Ben. Ben’s great, booming laugh startled the both of them, and then Hux started laughing at his own embarrassment--the both of them laughing in synchronisation at this ridiculous experience. But when their laughter petered out and they were left in silence, the sombreness returned and the full weight of what had just happened hit Ben.

 

It was so wildly inappropriate that he did not even have a synonym for just how  _ wrong _ it was. But Hux seemed content to ignore that that moment had ever even transpired, and Ben was more than happy to take his lead in the matter, so he did his best to disregard the uncomfortable weight between his legs and quash the guilt that threatened to overcome him. He could--he would  _ have _ to--save his freakout for later, when he could vent his consternation in private.

 

Suddenly, a small nagging feeling beseeched him to look back at Hux--Lord knows why. His hair was still slightly damp from the rain, and parted haphazardly, the shirt he was wearing was too broad across the chest and shoulders and his trousers were cinched with the tightest notch on the belt Ben had provided… but something was missing. Hux’s jumper was hanging over the side of his bathtub, drying, and his blazer was hanging by the front door… So what was it?

 

“Where’s your tie?” Ben blurted.

 

Confused by the non-sequitur, Hux took a moment to parse Ben’s question.

 

“Oh. I… I forgot it.” Ben found the idea simply absurd.  _ Hux _ forgot his tie? Ben figured that, like the previously mentioned Umbrella Incident, something had happened, and Hux was just too embarrassed to share what. Magnanimously making the decision to leave well enough alone--at this point, it would just mean subjecting himself to Hux’s presence for longer and that would make it harder to ignore the nebulous  _ thing _ hanging heavily between them now like a shared Sword of Damocles--Ben just nodded and turned to rifle through the small armoire by the door.

 

There was a spare tie in there somewhere that a student had previously left and… hah! He found it. He moved to Hux and lifted his collar to loop the tie around, but when he began to tie the half-windsor Hux swatted his hands away. Properly admonished, Ben recoiled immediately. He tried to tell himself that he  _ knew _ that Hux was perfectly capable of tying his own tie, but still--the rejection bruised his ego.

 

It was a pleasure in and of itself, however, watching Hux’s slender fingers deftly loop the material over itself, and tug the completed knot to sit at the base of his throat. Ben’s fingers  _ twitched _ with the desire to run over the material, to loosen the knot, and wrap around Hux’s throat themselves… But instead, Ben turned to retrieve Hux’s still unbearably damp blazer from where it was hanging by the door.

 

“Can’t do anything about this, I’m afraid,” Ben said, and for his part, sounded truly contrite. He was only just holding the offending garment in his hands, and he could still imagine just how  _ uncomfortable _ it would have to be to wear. “Turn around.”

 

Hux let out a derisive snort, but complied, turning away from Ben and stretching his arms wide. Ben stepped up behind him--ensuring to leave enough space for propriety’s sake--and threaded one arm through one of the blazer’s sleeves. He was sorely tempted to run his hands up along Hux’s arm as he tugged the sleeve up--and Hux probably wouldn’t have even noticed--but Ben refrained. He restrained himself because it was his job to deliver from temptation, and what kind of pastor would he be if he did not practice what he preached?

 

The other arm was a bit more difficult to maneuver into the garment, but eventually, Hux was back in his full uniform once more. His uniform, because he was a  _ student _ , and Ben felt even more vile for his prior actions. He felt obscene, repugnant.  _ Fuck _ . 

 

“Come on, then,” he said turning away to hide the shameful, rueful expression on his face. He patted down his pockets, ensuring that he  _ did _ actually have his keys this time before pulling open the door. Belatedly, he wished that he had braced himself as he was brusquely confronted by the brisk weather outside. He tugged the collar of his coat closer to him, and bent down to reach for the umbrella resting besides the door. 

 

If he felt a hand brush his back, just above the swell of his backside, well, he  _ was _ standing right in the doorway, and Hux needed to get past. Ben straightened, opened the umbrella, and waited for Hux to huddle under it with him. Together they stepped back out into the rain, sharing a stride and elbows brushing. Ben, for a scant second, allowed himself to imagine a place and time, whereby the Grace of God, he could have held Hux’s elbow instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said, hopefully the coding has all behaved for me. but jic I dun goof'd, here's the translations of what they say.
> 
> H: socks  
> B: socks  
> H: Oh, do you speak French?  
> B: I know a little, but I read it better than I speak it  
> H: I think you speak it just fine  
> B: You can use the 'tu' form with me, and call me Ben  
> B: If you want  
> H: I think that... I think that I'd like that
> 
> H: Give them to me


	3. Chapter 3

 

That was how Brendol Hux the Second found himself resting on his knees on the cold, hard stone of the Chapel floor. That was how he found himself underneath a watery ray of sunlight shining feebly through a stained glass window representing the visage of St. Thomas Aquinas. That was how Hux found himself prostrated before the altar, trying to distract himself by reciting the Sorrowful Mysteries as he thumbed his rosary beads--trying to distract himself from the warm pool of arousal deep in his belly, and the way that this cock chafed against Father Ben’s underwear each time he shifted.

 

As he was about to announce the fourth Sorrowful Mystery, Christ Carrying the Cross, barely the briefest flash of black cloth in his periphery caused Hux to lose his focus. The only other person that it could be at this time would be the priest in question, as none of the other staff or students would have trickled in yet. Incensed at himself for being distracted so easily Hux hunkered down and redoubled his efforts to focus on his prayers.

 

He stumbled a little over the first few lines of the Lord’s Prayer, but he quickly found the rhythm of his recitations again, his speech smoothing out by the third Hail Mary. The rest of the Decade continued without incident, but as he was about to announce the last Sorrowful Mystery, Hux felt the unmistakable sensation of someone watching him-- _Father Ben_ watching him. The illicit thrill that jolted through him from the knowledge that Father Ben might find him in such a… tumescent state, that he might be caught in his shame; it titillated and terrified him, both, further fanning the flares of his fervour.

 

But Hux persevered, endeavouring to stay steady in spite of his perverse arousal at his own shame. He squared his shoulders, and he clenched his fist a little bit tighter around his rosary, feeling the little wooden beads bite into the soft skin of his palm. He condemned himself for this secret of his: that he would desecrate the sanctity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit in this manner--condemning himself just as rigorously and as righteously as he would be damned for it.

 

He tried to focus once more on his prayers, but Hux was so acutely aware of Father Ben’s every minute movement. He heard each patter of Father Ben’s feet, each shuffle of paper as the priest flicked through the pages of a book, each _breath_ . They all resounded far too thunderously through the chapel, breaking Hux’s concentration and interrupting his meditation. The worst part was that Hux found himself _enjoying_ it. He enjoyed that he was suffering here in silence, cock constricted uncomfortably by the confines of his borrowed briefs, knees sore from the hard stone beneath.

 

He took several deep breaths as he thumbed the wooden beads in his hand to ground himself. This was supposed to be a peaceful time for penitence, a moment for quiet patience. But most of all, this was meant to be a time for _prayer_ , and as he was about to commence the Concluding Prayer, a large, warm hand rested on his shoulder--and how had Hux not noticed Father Ben’s approach? The priest was standing right in front of him!

 

Hux’s posture had been so tight that even the slight weight of Father Ben’s hand had thrown him off kilter, and he found himself falling forwards into the priest. In the split second in between his initial surprise and the incipient collision, Hux had _just_ enough time to turn his head so that rather than headbutting Father Ben in the genitals, it was his cheek that impacted none too gently against the priest. The woollen trousers were rough against his skin, but pleasantly warm from the priest’s body.

 

Hux would have sworn that, for a mere moment, he could feel the ghost of Father Ben’s hand threading through his hair, phantasmal fingers carding through his still-damp locks. Despite his erection hanging heavily between his legs and the pool of arousal curling in his belly, it wasn’t sexual. It was just deeply intimate, just _hugging_ Father Ben like this, being so close.

 

The moment somehow simultaneously felt like a little piece of eternity, stretching on for an aeon, but also ending too soon when Father Ben began pulling away. In an act of manic desperation, before he even paused to think about his actions, Hux dropped his rosary beads and reached out to embrace Father Ben around his legs. Even through Father Ben’s loose garments, Hux was able to feel the quiet strength in his body--something that was intimidating and comforting, both.

 

When he caught himself, Hux was humiliated, absolutely _mortified_ , and he tried to quickly pull away. But before he could withdraw more than a few inches, a reassuring pressure at the nape of his neck drew him back. In an uncharacteristic pique of vulnerability, Hux sought the comfort of burying his face in Father Ben’s vestments, trying to hide from the prying eyes of the Son of God on the crucifix on the altar. Not that he really _could_ hide from the omnipresent, omniscient, _omnipotent_ lord.

 

“Mea culpa, my child. I did not mean to startle.”

 

Hux didn’t respond, instead burying his head further into the rough-hewn fabric and inhaling the sweet, floral smell of Father Ben’s fabric softener, and the musky undertones of the priest’s own scent. His posture crumpled as he looked to the floor when Father Ben pulled away and Hux no longer had the priest’s vestments to hide his face in, folding in on himself as much as possible and hugging his arms around himself. It was only through a gargantuan show of fortitude that Hux restrained himself from seeking comfort in Father Ben once more, trying to preserve the scant shreds of his dignity that remained.

 

Father Ben surprised Hux for the second time that day by falling to his knees in between him and the altar, and placing his hand under Hux’s chin to gently lift his head. Their faces were so close that Hux could see the flickering flames of the votive candles reflected back in the dark irises of the priest’s eyes, and they added some unearthly, _ethereal_ quality. The priest’s eyes were already warm of hue, but the candle flames added an additional indeterminate _passion_ , an additional fervour on top of Father Ben’s usually intense stare. Their faces being so close also meant that Hux could feel the warmth of Father Ben’s breath ghosting over his face, and his eyes closed involuntarily.

 

For a time, Hux let himself just enjoy the sensation, allowing his breath to synchronise with Father Ben’s, existing in a surreal state of equilibrium where Hux would inhale Father Ben’s exhaled breath, and it would set his lungs alight, a conflagration combusting him from the inside-out… When a dry, but soft, finger brushed delicately against his lower lip, Hux let his mouth fall open without a conscious thought, and all of his breath rushed out of his lungs at once. It washed over Father Ben’s face like a confession, a secret in a carnal language that only lovers could speak. Just as gently, Father Ben brushed Hux’s cheek with the backs of his knuckles, before brushing an errant lock of hair back behind his ear.

 

Hux’s eyes snapped open at the gesture, immediately seeking the priest’s gaze, but Father Ben’s eyes were drawn towards Hux’s lips. Hux licked his lower lip, just the tip darting out to wet where the priest’s thumb had brushed, and Father Ben subconsciously mimicked the action. This, in turn, brought Hux’s gaze down to Father Ben’s lips. His _licentiously luscious_ lips. Through serendipity, or by the Grace of God, both Father Ben and Hux looked up at each-other at the exact same time, and Hux idly noted how the other’s pupils had been blown wide. They were open, gaping, _yearning_ , and Hux felt his attention being drawn to them.

 

Everything else faded away: the blaze of breath burning in his lungs; the tight spring of arousal coiling in his belly; the cruel bite of stone beneath his knees. All of his attention in that moment was drawn to the yawning abyss of Father Ben’s eyes.

 

Hux tilted his head a little to the right. Father Ben tilted his head a little to the left. Drawn ever closer to the ignominious immolation, Hux leaned in slightly, aiming to approach the asymptote and---

 

\--Father Ben leaned further still to the side to pick up Hux’s rosary beads, offering them up in an act of attrition. Hux scrambled to snatch them from the priest’s grip before scrabbling to stand up. But as he turned to make his expeditious retreat, Father Ben reached out to grab Hux’s wrist. The sensation of Father Ben’s long fingers squeezing tightly seared into his flesh like a brand, like his own personal stigmata. When the priest tugged sharply, Hux’s loose footing sent him sprawling backwards, landing flat on his arse with his back pressed against Father Ben’s chest.

 

“Sorry,” Father Ben apologised breathlessly, a wince evident in his tone. “I don’t know my own strength, sometimes.”

 

“You did not complete the Concluding Prayer, my child,” Father Ben whispered as he wrapped his hands around Hux’s lips. The sibilants caressed the shell of Hux’s ear and sent shivers down his spine as the priest embraced him.

 

Knowing that his position would do nothing to hide his… excitement, should the priest look down, Hux tore himself from Father Ben’s grasp and shuffled awkwardly to place himself at a more respectable distance. Deciding that the equivalent of three steps away was far enough, he also turned to the side, so that he could catch the priest in his periphery, but wasn’t forced to look directly at him.

 

He felt a bit like Lot and his family, tempted to sneak a glance at what he left behind whilst simultaneously knowing that to do so would mean doom.

 

“O God, whose only-begotten Son, by his life, death, and

resurrection has purchased us the rewards of eternal life…”

 

Hux trailed off uncertainly. He had long ago memorised the passage, having known it ever since he could speak, but from the corner of his eye, Hux espied Father Ben staring at him with a strange expression. The priest’s gaze was still intense, even bordering on something _dark_ , but his lips were quirked in a small half smile. Hux’s cheek twitched with a desire to reciprocate, but he quite literally bit down on the urge. The sharp, metallic tang of blood bloomed on his tongue, and he blinked away the tear in the corner of his eye that threatened to fall.

 

Father Ben’s face changed so dramatically from something soft, and warm, to something hard and cold in the span of a heartbeat, that Hux couldn’t help but turn his head and look over.

 

The affection in his eyes was shuttered behind clinical indifference, and his grin was tighter, less genuine.Even though Hux aborted the jerk of his arm--that was somehow still in Father Ben’s grasp throughout all of this--halfway through the movement, the priest still dropped his hand like anathema. Hux looked down at his rosary in his hand, so that Father Ben couldn’t see the blatant look of _hurt_ on his face.

 

“grant, we beseech you, that meditating on these mysteries

in the most holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary, we may

imitate what they contain, and obtain what they promise.

Through the same Christ our Lord…”

 

Hux inhaled deeply before continuing, so that he could eke out the rest of the Concluding Prayer in a rapid cascade of words, meekly gasping in a quick inhale after he completed his devotion. The brief gap that his breath provided gave Father Ben the opportunity to join him for the final supplication, the two of them simultaneously murmuring _amen_.

 

“Very good, my child. Would you like me to take your confession, now?”

 

Hux floundered at the the mercurial swing of Father Ben’s mood again, looking up in surprise. Once again, the Priest’s expression was open, hopeful, and it made him look so _youthful_ , so innocently _excited_. Hux was stunned into silence, and despite his best efforts, couldn’t string an answer together.

 

But Father Ben accepted Hux’s tacit compliance as assent with a nod, and, once again, held out his hand for Hux. Hux looked from the proffered hand back to Father Ben’s face, and then back to the hand, which was now wavering slightly in midair. The priest raised a sardonic eyebrow, and gave his hand a little shake for emphasis, but still patiently waited for Hux to be the one to take it.  
  
“Won’t you help an old man?”

 

Hux had had the urge to inelegantly snort trained out of him, but he did scoff derisively and turn away as he struggled to his feet. With a speed that shocked even Hux slightly, he shot out his own slender hand towards Father Ben’s just as the priest began to withdraw his, and frantically intertwined their fingers. When Father Ben looked up at Hux curiously, Hux found he had no words to respond to the unspoken question with, instead half-heartedly clearing his throat and shrugging noncommittally.

 

“You’re not _that_ old,” was the weak rejoinder he finally settled on as he helped Father Ben to stand.

 

“I’m ten years older than you!”

 

Hux appraised the priest from head to toe. He had an awkward, disproportionate feel to him, like he wasn’t quite done growing just yet. Or perhaps, that he had had a sudden growth spurt, and he still wasn’t quite used to the length of his lanky limbs. Either way, Hux half-heartedly doubted the priest’s assertion, and let his skepticism show on his face.

 

Those long, lanky limbs meant that Father Ben had quite a stride on him, though. Hux had to struggle to catch up with the priest, who, had already begun making his way to his office while tugging Hux along by the hand. Their fingers were still intertwined, but due to the change of position now that they were both standing, they were slotted together uncomfortably. Hux flexed his hand to subtly readjust how his hand was sitting in Father Ben’s, rather than a passive-aggressive ploy to extricate himself, but was too embarrassed to disavow the priest of the notion when he dropped his hand.

 

Hux instantly missed the warmth, the solid comfort, of Father Ben’s hand in his, and just as instantly hated himself for it. Really, he was almost an adult. He didn’t need to hold anyone’s hand as he walked along. He was more than just his base desire for physical comfort. Hux pushed his hands into his trouser pockets-- _Father Ben’s_ trouser pockets, and wasn’t that an uncomfortable irony?--to prevent him from reaching out. If it also served the purpose of obfuscating his… excitement, which was impacting on his stride as he tried to keep up with Father Ben, well, that was a useful side-benefit.

 

“You’re twenty-seven? I thought you had been out of Seminary School for longer,” Hux didn’t quite _pant_ , but it still came out more breathless than he had wanted it to.

 

“No, I’m twenty-eight--wait, you’re seventeen?”

 

Evidently this tidbit of information was salient enough, or surprising enough, to cause Father Ben to stop suddenly and turn towards Hux. Towards Hux, who didn’t react quickly enough and tripped over Father Ben’s foot. Towards Hux, who was about to faceplant directly into the stone floor because his hands were caught in his trouser pockets.

 

But it seemed that Father Ben was to be Hux’s savior for the--what time was it? The third time at _least_ today. While the Priest was not able to steady Hux on his feet, he was able to absorb some of the momentum of impact against his chest which was--marginally--softer than the floor. As Father Ben’s hands came up to Hux’s shoulders to help him regain his balance, Hux brushed up against a… against a… _Surely_ that was just a fold in the Priest’s clothing.

 

Sure, Hux had… _felt_ empirical evidence of Father Ben’s… enthusiasm, earlier, when Father Ben was helping Hux to put his shoes on, but Hux had just dismissed it as the natural reaction to stimulation. Surely there was no reason for Father Ben to be excited now? But, no, when Hux thrust forward minutely, just _barely_ , under the guise of regaining his footing, Father Ben’s reaction said it all. The Priest had choked on a groan, quickly averted his eyes, and a small blush had adorned his cheeks.

 

“M-mea culpa.”

 

Well, wasn’t that something? It probably had something to do with Father Ben being particularly… sensitive because of his vow of celibacy, but Hux could work with that. Even if he couldn’t have Father Ben’s _affections_ , he could engineer a way to ensure Ben’s _ardour_. Hux would just have to console himself with such artifices, because there was no way that the priest would ever reciprocate his feelings.

 

Hux lazily gave one last intentionally blatant roll of his hips against Father Ben’s before stepping back. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and made a grand show of dusting off the shoulders of Father Ben’s clerical shirt, inching his hands closer and closer to the nape of the priest’s neck each time. Hux didn’t miss the way that Father Ben’s breath caught in his throat when he barely brushed the priest’s earlobe with his fingertips, and filed the information away for later.

 

“Pretty spry for an old man,”

 

“Yeah, well, you try spending hours on your knees each day,”

 

Hux’s face remained stoic, except for the eyebrow which he raised in feigned apathy. With an exaggerated aloofness, he appraised Father Ben from head to toe again--or rather, head to knee. When he looked back up at the priest, his lips slowly spread into a sultry smirk. No, it was something far more sordid, almost _feral_ , with far too many teeth.

 

Father Ben obviously inferred the meaning behind Hux’s gesture, if his blush was anything to go by. He opened his mouth to respond, but quickly closed it again. The longer he took to find words, the more that Hux’s confidence waned. Without realising _how_ it had happened, _Hux_ was the one who felt powerless and impotent, like _he_ was the one being held under inspection as Father Ben stared down his long nose at him. Like he was seven years old again, and his father was admonishing him for behaving like the child that he was.

 

Ordinarily, the priest biting his lip _just_ like that would make something deep in his belly flutter. But right now, it was all Hux could do to not fidget underneath the piercing gaze, even as he felt his cock twitch in his borrowed briefs. He kind of liked it, almost. It was _exhilarating_ to be held under such deep scrutiny, to be stripped so powerless and bare, to be reduced to something so… so malleable. But he had also never been so he had never been so crushingly _cognizant_ of his own inexperience as in this moment, of his own _ineptitude,_ waiting for Father Ben to either dismiss or validate him.

 

The last vestige of Hux’s vain hopes drained away when Father Ben looked away from him and scratched at the nape of his neck. Hux could see that he was debating with himself, and was frankly, offended that Father Ben felt the need to let him down gently. Like he was something fragile, and couldn’t take the hard knocks of life. He suddenly felt so… _angry_ , his prior arousal somehow transmogrified into passion of another sort.

  


He wanted to lash out at Father Ben for reducing him to an almost-quivering mess. He wanted to lash out at Father Ben so that when he shattered, as was inevitable now, it would at least be on _his_ terms. But most of all, he wanted to punish himself for allowing himself to be put in this predicament in the first place. He _knew_ better, he really did. After months and months of pining, ever since Father Ben had come to replace his father, really, Hux should have known that this… infatuation was never going to amount to anything.

 

It was naîve of him to think otherwise. It was _childish_ , and he deserved to be chastened like one. He had simply misinterpreted some of their prior interactions, and even if Father Ben _had_ had a physical reaction to Hux’s _manual_ stimulation, that didn’t mean that it was ever going to amount in a consummation. Hux was feeling so sorry for himself, that he almost missed it when Father Ben turned back to him and smiled shamefully, ruefully at him.

 

“In _penitence_ , you Heathen,” Father Ben’s words were made in jest, no real vitriol behind the insult. But there was a certain… brittleness to their docility that just _drained_ Hux of his ire. It was Hux’s mistake. Father Ben had done nothing wrong, nothing to encourage Hux’s deluded fantasies. Here the priest was, trying to extend an olive branch.

 

“Spending several hours in supplication to the Lord for your _Sinful_ ways,” Hux tried to mimic Father Ben’s teasing tone, but his rapid shift from aggression to despondence meant that it fell a bit flat.

 

“I’ll show you supplication.”

 

Hux just raised a sardonic eyebrow, and allowed a minute amused curl of his lips. It was kind of fun, bantering with Father Ben like this. The levity also alleviated the tension between the two of them, shifting back into more familiar, if not comfortable, territory.

 

“Or rather, I’ll have _you_ show me supplication.”

 

“Is that something that you would like, Father? Would you like me on my knees before you in repentance, my head hung in capitulation?”

 

Hux was almost certain that he heard Father Ben mumble something along the lines of “the Lord blessed you to be hung in other departments,” but he was surely mistaken, and pretended that he couldn’t parse the priest’s comment.

 

“Pardon me, Father?”

 

“You’re not Pardoned yet, my Child, you’ve yet to complete your Confession. Come along, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

That was how Hux now found himself sitting in Father Ben’s office waiting for the priest to change into his ceremonial cassock. The office was dingy, and kitsch, with mismatched furniture and various religious knick knacks, various novelty crucifixes scattered about the place like theological tchotchkes. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, accidentally knocking his knee against Father Ben’s desk and knocking a copy of the bible that was previously perched precariously on the edge to the floor with a loud _thump_.

 

The huge, ornate desk occupied most of the space in the room, but there was a half-height Oriental screen in the far corner that Father Ben was using to change behind when swapping into his vestments. Due to the priest’s absurd height, it was barely up to his waist, his modestly only nominally preserved by a lady lounging languorously in a state of partial dishabille. The pale mounds of her breasts were exposed and only a slim sliver of nipple was showing from underneath her garment, and Hux felt it was a rather gauche item to have in an office in a chapel--even if the nudity was tastefully artful.

 

Hux tore his gaze from the provocative picture to an unlit votive candle sitting in a tacky glass holder painted with an effigy of Christ, the lazily seductive expression of the Oriental lady replaced by the dejectedly disparaging rictus of the Son of God. As embarrassing as it was to feel like he was being silently judged for holding a staring competition with a painting of Jesus Christ, he felt it less embarrassing than spying on the silhouette of Father Ben getting changed behind the semi-translucent screen. Between the priest’s height, and the lack of privacy that the screen provided, not much was left for Hux to fill in with his imagination.

 

Hux shifted in his seat again, this time to try and alleviate the discomfort that the position was causing in his trousers, rather than out of a sense of awkwardness as he impatiently waited to give confession. The actual confessional stall had been out of commission for the past fortnight, now, ever since the O’Donnell twins had vandalised it by “anointing” the sacred walls with expletives and sigils showing phallic imagery.

 

Hux startled and banged his knee against the desk once more when Father Ben dropped himself unceremoniously on the edge of the desk right beside Hux, now fully clad in his cassock. The priest had the _temerity_ to look _contrite_ , attempting to smile consolingly down at Hux, but it came out as more of a moue that intimidated him instead. Hux found that he couldn’t look up at Father Ben when he was looking down at Hux like that, steadfastly continuing to stare at the votive candle.

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last Confession.”

 

“I thought I’d told you that you may call me ‘Ben,’ if you wanted?” Father Ben’s disappointment was palpable, even without Hux needing to look over at the priest. Hux wasn’t prepared for how much Father Ben’s hurt would hurt _him_ , and he felt his resolve wavering.

 

“I think, in the sanctity of Confession, I would prefer to call you ‘Father,’ if I may.”

 

Father Ben stayed silent, and the silence hung heavy and oppressive on Hux. He was grateful for the opportunity to address the priest in such a familiar manner, on such personal terms, but something as sacred as Confession should remain separate, it should not be impugned upon by personal pettiness.

 

“Very well, my child,” Father Ben sighed, and though he made a gallant effort hiding his offense, Hux could still hear the way that the priest’s voice broke on the last word. “What Sins do you accuse yourself of? Are you still having Impure Thoughts?”

 

This was always so much easier when he couldn’t see the priest’s face. It was almost as though actually seeing Father Ben, the very object of his most ardent adorations made his feelings more _real._ In the confessional stall, he could dismiss them as abstract desires--but here, so close, with Father Ben’s long legs brushing against his, Hux couldn’t.

 

“Yes, Father. I find myself driven to Distraction constantly.” Case in point, Hux was literally twiddling his thumbs to avoid looking at Father Ben.

 

“Have you found yourself acting upon these Impure Thoughts?”

 

“Sometimes, at night...”

 

A stuttered inhalation from the priest.

 

“Do you… pleasure yourself to these thoughts?”

 

“I do not indulge in prurient pursuits, Father, no--” it was only token protest, that he did not allow himself petty pleasures of the flesh. He was a warm-blooded teenage male, of course he _indulged_ , even if only perfunctorily as a matter of self-maintenance. Of course Father Ben _knew_ that, so it didn’t count as lying.

 

“Then you have not acted upon these Impure Thoughts?”

 

Sometimes, at night, when he was feeling particularly cold, or lonesome, or just _piteous_ for himself, he’d let his mind wander. He’d let his mind wander to what it would feel like to have Father Ben pressed up behind him, to feel the planes of his body against his. He would let his mind wander to what it would feel like to be pressed up _behind_ Father Ben, to what it would be to feel the priest in his arms. Gauging by how warm his hand had been earlier, Father Ben would be his own personal furnace, keeping him warm in the winter, on those long, cold nights.

 

Or it would wander to what it would feel like to share simple, intimate moments. Washing the priest’s luxurious locks in the shower, a simple buss on the cheek at the start and the end of each day… What it would feel like to have Father Ben’s hand wrapped around him, instead of his own--what it would feel like to wrap his hand around Father Ben. Would it feel like warm velvet over steel? Hux knew, intellectually, that there were other things, too. Lips on heated skin, fingers delving deep, but somehow those always felt too _personal_ to imagine, and he refused to allow himself to think on them.

 

“No, Father. Not yet,” Hux murmured demurely, looking up at Father Ben from underneath his lashes, skittering his gaze from the priest back to the candle, and back to the priest again.

 

“Then you have not yet Sinned, my child,” Father Ben gave Hux a small, placating smile. Or at least, the Priest had _intended_ it to be a placating smile, but Hux found it derisive and patronising, and it rankled against his dignity. Hux raised his eyes to meet Father Ben’s squarely in challenge.

 

“I also accuse myself of Envy.”

 

Father Ben’s brow furrowed in confusion, and his tilted head and slow blink were reminiscent of a little lost bird.

 

“Envy, my child?”

 

“I have found myself covetous of another man’s possessions. You see, if I cannot possess him…” Hux trailed off, but Father Ben seemed to understand.

 

“Have you acted upon your Envy?”

 

Once again, Hux couldn’t meet Father Ben’s eyes. This time, it was so that the Priest wouldn’t be able to discern that Hux was… stretching the truth a little bit.

 

“I am afraid that I have, Father. I have stolen one of his possessions.”

 

Hux didn’t know how he had expected Father Ben to react, but he definitely did not expect the Priest to lean forwards and rest his hand on Hux’s shoulder. A small, traitorous part of him in a dark recess of his mind wanted to lean into it, to lean into the warmth and the comfort. But the larger part of him was still dejected from the priest’s rejection earlier, and he wasn’t prepared for the tenuous vulnerability that putting himself in Father Ben’s hands would mean.

 

“Do you still have it in your possession? You can prove your repentance by returning it.”

 

“No, Father. I’m afraid that I have lost it.”

 

As if it was in slow motion, Hux could see each of Father Ben’s movements telegraphed in high definition, so he knew that the Priest was going to retract his hand and lean back in his chair before it even happened. Somehow, even the preternatural precognition that Hux had in that moment did nothing to dissipate how much he felt the _loss_ of Father Ben’s hand upon his shoulder. Despite losing the weight, he somehow felt even heavier for it, and his shoulders sunk as he fell further into his chair.

 

“Can you provide reparations of equal value?”

 

“I’m afraid not, Father. The item had _sentimental_ value. It was an heirloom, from his Grandfather, I believe.”

 

“What was the item, child?”

 

“A Rosary, Father.”

 

Father Ben’s face did something complicated. It was like it had started scrunching in confusion, but he aborted halfway through when realisation struck. Taking his Rosary off from around his neck, he offered it to Hux, carelessly dangling it from his fingertips.

 

“Is this the Rosary in question?”

 

Hux barely flicked his eyes up to look at what Father Ben was proffering before averting his eyes to stare at the grotesquely gruesome crucifix sitting on the corner of the desk.

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“Lucky for you that I found it again.”

 

The Lord’s pained expression seemed to mock Hux’s emotional turmoil at being caught out in his lie.

 

“Yes, Father,” repeated Hux, far more resigned than petulant. “For these sins and all that I cannot remember, I humbly repent and ask for absolution, counsel, and penance.”

 

“I would direct you to a decade of the Rosary, but today I have a different Act of Contrition for you. Please stand and bend over the desk.”

 

“Father?”

 

“You heard me, my child. Please stand, and bend over the desk.”

 

On hesitant, shaking legs, Hux complied. This was it, this was the day that he had finally pushed Father Ben too far, just like how he had driven his father to commit the sin of suicide. He bore the weight of it upon his back, much the same as how Christ had carried the cross to Calvary--he was carrying the means of his own condemnation and castration.

 

The irony of his father having been the last person to have… punished him in a manner such as this was not lost on Hux, either. Father Ben had come to replace Hux’s father’s position in the clergy prior to his death. _Demise_ , whispered the tenebrous gloaming in the back of his mind, the shadowy spectre of shame and guilt. So, Father Ben had already taken over pontificating to Hux, and now, it seemed, the priest would take over punishing him, as well.

 

Really, the only surprise was that Father Ben’s patience had extended this far. The man had had the patience of St. Paul, no, of _Job_ , and Hux was deeply impressed that he was only just coming to blows, now. The same dark part of his mind wondered what this meant, how long it would take Hux to push Father Ben _too_ far away, before the priest joined his father where Hux could not follow. That Hux had even thought, even for the most ephemerally fleeting second, that he would find some degree of comfort, even complacency, in Father Ben’s arms, some brief reprieve from the eternal suffering in Hell that he was surely interned for…

 

But he had let his naîve optimism cloud the truth that he would find no ataraxia. In fact, he _deserved_ to have this act of attrition forced upon him, the retribution that he had incurred. In his state of hyperawareness, Hux heard Father Ben shuffling around somewhere behind him, opening and closing drawers in the bureau that was the last piece of furniture in the room. When the priest slammed one of the drawers shut with more force than was probably necessary, Hux flinched.

 

The sudden movement caused his left hamstring to twinge in pain, and Hux spread his fingers out on the edge of the desk to help balance himself as he shifted his weight from foot to foot to try and alleviate the discomfort. This also meant that he was inadvertently wiggling his hips in the air and rubbing his--by now, flaccid--cock against the fly of his trousers, and he only barely managed to suppress a mewl when the pressure was _just_ right. However, he wasn’t able to suppress the blush that warmed his cheeks, and not for the first time, he silently bemoaned his pale pallor.

 

Despite Hux being so keenly conscious of Father Ben’s proximity, he still jumped nearly a foot into the air when a hand rested proprietarily on his hip and a foot tapped the inside of his. The priest set the thin bamboo switch on the desk and placed his now empty hand right beside Hux’s head. As he slowly curled his body over Hux’s, Hux felt a peculiar tingle just under his skin. It was like tiny little pinpricks of static electricity tickling him where Hux could feel the taut planes of Father Ben’s chest pressed against his back, and Hux’s back bowed downwards reflexively away from the source of the tickling tingles, thrusting his arse upwards and brushing it against Father Ben’s crotch.

 

The priest’s rough, ragged pants right by the shell of Hux’s ear were the bellows stoking the fire that was growing deep in his belly. It curled outwards in thin tendrils, insidiously instilling itself in his very _veins_ . It was difficult to not give himself over to the sensation, to allow himself to take _pleasure_ in being pressed up against Father Ben like this. It was difficult to bring himself back and remember why he was in this position in the first place, and that it was to receive his rebuke.

 

“Spread your legs further, child,” Father Ben murmured right against Hux’s skin, words vibrating against his flesh and sending shivers down his spine. The priest dragged his lips over the skin not hidden under his collar to the little nook just underneath his ear before biting into Hux’s earlobe, not ungently. Even still, Hux yelped at the sensation of the priest’s teeth sinking into his flesh before being soothed by the slick slide of Father Ben’s tongue. Father Ben used the moment of distraction and the leverage provided by his foot on the inside of Hux’s to further spread his legs.

 

With Father Ben curling over him so much, pressed together nearly head to toe, each vertebra almost in perfect alignment, Hux felt utterly _subsumed_ in him, and had trouble thinking of himself as an independent entity and not just as an extension of the priest. It would be far too easy to lose himself like that, to lose himself in Father Ben, and the way that he made his veins thrum with a skittish energy and set every nerve alight.

 

The hand on Hux’s hip lazily traced a path downwards along his side, and then inwards until the firm flesh of his buttocks was cupped in Father Ben’s palm. Hux’s acute awareness amplified the small motion, transmuting the tiny little tingles into a blazing trail along his skin. It was all at once too much--too much contact, too much _intimacy_. It was all at once not enough--there were too many clothes in the way, Hux wanted to feel Father Ben’s skin against his--and the two warring sides of Hux meant that he stiffened, not knowing whether to shift into the gesture, or shift away.

 

The priest squeezed briefly before withdrawing his grip and pulling away slightly. Even though the priest had not been resting his full mass upon Hux’s back, it was like a crushing weight had been lifted when Father Ben pulled away, like he was Atlas and no longer had to carry the world upon his back.Hux leaned his weight on one elbow so he could twist around and look over at Father Ben, turning his head over his shoulder. A large hand--the one that the priest wasn’t using to divest himself of his rosary beads--pressed firmly on Hux’s back, squarely between his scapulas and forced him back onto the desk.

 

With the additional force, the arm that Hux was propping himself up on gave out and Hux’s entire front was flat against the desk top, just barely dangling off the edge from his clavicles upwards. Father Ben scratched his way up between Hux’s shoulderblades and up Hux’s neck to fist his hand in Hux’s hair. The priest tugged sharply on the locks in his fingers like a marionette’s strings, and frissons of pain skittered down his scalp, making Hux gasp. Embarrassed and ashamed at the fact that the gasp wasn’t just in pain, but that there had been an undercurrent of _pleasure_ that had surged down his spine and set warmth coursing through his veins, Hux bit his lip to keep himself silent.

 

Leaning forwards, Father Ben used his other hand to drape the rosary beads over Hux’s head. They had only spent a brief moment in the priest’s hand and were still very cold, and the vast contrast in temperatures between the metal rosary beads hanging heavily from his neck and his overheated flesh caused Hux to gasp out “fuck.” He bucked backwards, wildly, brushing his buttocks against Father Ben’s slowly swelling cock.

 

“Maybe later, if you have been properly penitent,” the Priest chuckled, the laugh caressing him like Father Ben had caressed his flesh.

 

_Fuck_ was Hux’s only thought, repeating again and again like a mantra. _Fuck_ . What was Father Ben doing? _Fuck,_ what was _he_ doing? _Fuck fuck fuck_.

 

Before he stepped away completely, Father Ben pinched Hux’s earlobe, just where he had bitten, and held it in a vice-like grip between his fingers. Dropping the hand that was in Hux’s hair so that his head was being suspended by Father Ben’s grip on his ear instead, the priest moved his hand down to grip the rosary around Hux’s neck by the Crucifix to pull back on it. When the priest dropped Hux’s head unceremoniously, Hux did his best to throw his head back and follow the slack of the chain. But when he could not bend his neck back any further he felt the cruel nip of the metal beads along the long, sinuous line of the sweet, delicate flesh of his throat. Hux gasped again, breathlessly, and timidly wiggled away.

 

With the one hand gripping the rosary, Ben used his other hand to grip the switch and place it just above Hux’s flesh, above the crease where buttock and thigh met. Hux could feel its presence through the cloth of his trousers, resting, waiting. A wave of bitter nostalgia washed over Hux as he was reminded of the malicious intent of the switch, of the suffering that it caused. But with the arousal now surging through him, warming him from the inside-out and making him feel too tight in his skin--let alone in his clothes, despite how baggy they were--there was a sort of dissonance. He felt numb, somehow _inured_. Like the warmth of his arousal provided a buffer, caught in his own little bubble insulating him from the causticity.

 

Father Ben pulled a little more tightly on the rosary, forcing Hux to bow his back further in a futile attempt to try and alleviate the pressure on his throat, the bite of the metal beads on his skin. But it was to no avail, and now Hux was trapped in an awkward and uncomfortable position by the rosary against his windpipe and the switch by his buttocks, with no room to wriggle away, anymore. Through some preternatural precognition, Hux could sense _where_ Father Ben’s mighty blow would fall upon his flesh, and a nervous tingle shuddered through his body.

 

It hummed in concert with the muted ache in his earlobe where the priest had bitten him, with the low thrum of his neck twinging in pain, and with the prickle of arousal trickling through his too-sluggish veins. Altogether, the sensations were slowly building up, crescendoing together in a discordant cacophony of white noise, holding the tense suspension between Father Ben and himself like a fermata…

 

The sudden sting of the switch on his skin when Father Ben first brought it down was almost electric, the shock jolting along his nerves and radiating outwards from the welt. The surprise of it finally coming, despite Hux having been so conscious of its incipience, caused Hux’s knees to buckle. He lost his balance slightly and had to spread his legs apart even further still, clenching his hands tightly on the edge of the desk for additional support.

 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Hux breathed. The pain had receded to almost nothing, a dull throb, barely more than an itch under his skin. But Hux did not doubt that Father Ben could _make_ it hurt. That Hux could be so easily subjugated should be cause for intimidation, but instead waves of a different kind of warmth than arousal washed over him. Sure, Father Ben _could_ make it hurt, but he wasn’t. Or at least, not causing any major harm.

 

Hux _trusted_ the priest to take his brittle self, to cast it into the fire and reforge it, to hone it into something better, something stronger… Even as he hated himself for thinking it, his cock twitched at the idea of the priest harming him, at the idea of being used and abused in such a base manner--to give himself over so wholly to another’s whims.

  
  


“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.” The priest brought the switch down again, just slightly below the previous location, and again it stung. Again, it sent a jolt of electricity running skittering down his nerves, making his stomach flutter and his heart skip a beat. In between his heightened sense of exertion and the rosary beads pressing at his throat, Hux’s breathing was beginning to become strained and everything was starting to go a little fuzzy at the edges.

 

Or that could have been the tear that sprang up in the corner of his eye when Father Ben brought the switch down for a third time when Hux made no response.

 

“Are you Contrite, child?”

 

“Yes,” Hux panted out, furiously blinking away the tear. A long, tense moment passed in which Father Ben simply held the switch above Hux’s flesh. Hux tried to will his legs and buttocks to relax, because the tension he held in them would only the next hit more painful. But the adrenaline from the haze of laboured breathing, and the endorphins in response to Father Ben’s assault on his arse made for a heady cocktail and his brain wasn’t communicating with his body quite right and all of his higher functions had been abandoned in the Pyrrhic search for release.

 

When the next caning didn’t come, not for a great, heaving breath, not for two, Hux’s head began to clear from the miasma fogging his thoughts and dulling his senses. The initial edge of the first three hits with the switch had had been blunted, and the boiling heat in his loins had been reduced to a simmer, though his cock still hung flushed and heavy between his legs.

 

“O my God, I am heavily sorry for having offended thee…” Father Ben began. Hux struggled to catch the priest’s words beyond the roaring rush of blood in his ears and each overly-loud heave of breath. How he struggled enough oxygen to keep him conscious, let alone let him speak and invoke the Lord’s forgiveness.

 

“Oh my God, I am heavily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest all my sins--” Hux’s supplication was interrupted by another flick of the switch, slightly lower still. This time, though, the welt didn’t just _sting_ . This welt got under his skin in a way that the other three hadn’t, and Hux let out an embarrassing pained gurgle. But this stripe didn’t just _hurt_ . Hux was used to that, from when his father used to cane him--even if it had been years since that had last occurred. It hurt, definitely, but it straddled the line between excruciating and exquisite, sending a frisson of _pleasure_ singing down his singed nerves. “--I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven, and the pains of Hell.”

 

Another flick of the switch, another jolt of pain, and this time, Hux let out a low groan. Hux could take the pain. But it was the new jolt of pleasure that Hux couldn’t take. It was the soothing balm marring the sanctity of his penance, of his Confession--regardless of whether or not it was being held in a Confessional stall, what was happening was still happening between Hux, Father Ben, and the Lord. Internally, Hux immediately chastised himself. Not for embarrassing himself by showing that he was affected, because the loss of his Dignity was a foregone conclusion--but for wasting precious air.

 

Between the pressure on his throat constricting his airflow, and needing to recite the Act of Contrition, Hux was rapidly running out of breath, and needed to take a few great quick gasps before he could continue. His lungs were burning, the most recent welts on his legs were blazing, and he felt far too hot, he felt like an inferno was consuming him from within, reducing him to a charred cinder from the inside-out. This must be what the immortal immolation of perdition felt like.

 

“But most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all good and deserving of all of my love.” Another flick of the switch later, and Hux’s vision was watery. If it was from tears of blinding pain, or the blinding sparks of pleasure each time his dick rubbed against his pants when it jerked, or the oxygen deprivation, only God knew.

 

“I firmly resolve,” Hux sobbed breathlessly, “I firmly resolve with the help of Thy Grace, to Sin no more--”

 

Okay, maybe it _was_ the oxygen deprivation, because Hux’s vision blacked out for a moment. When it returned, Hux’s head had fallen forward, supported only by the tension of the rosary being held by Father Ben. Suddenly, his lips were chapped and drier than the Desert of Shur, and when he licked them, he tasted the bitter salt of tears on his tongue.

 

“--and avoid the near occasions of Sin.” Hux’s voice broke halfway through the sentence and he was staring at the effigy of the Lord in earnest, beseeching, _imploring_ him to understand, to forgive Hux: for his Lust for Father Ben; for the gall to lie to a priest about his Envy; for driving his father to hell; for surely driving Father Ben to damnation, as well. His concession felt more like a condemnation than an absolution, bent over Father Ben’s desk with Jesus staring pitifully down at him from where he was resting on his crucifix.

 

Using the rosary around Hux’s neck, Father Ben gently manipulated his head to drop to the desk. Once more, he placed the switch beside Hux, and moved to stand behind him. The priest grabbed and groped Hux’s thighs, kneading the sore flesh and digging his thumbs into the welts. Hux, able to breathe freely now, was sobbing shamelessly. His tears were falling onto the top of the desk, his chest and shoulders, his _entire_ body wracked by the force of his cries.

 

Or was his body wracked by the force of his orgasm, his body gone supernova as thousands of shining, shimmering pinpricks exploded behind his eyes? Each spurt of spilled seed was a solar flare erupting from his core, so hot, so tight, so _exhausting_. After the last of his energy would be expended by the last ebbing pulse of his cock, what would become of him? A solid, sedentary has-been star?

 

Winding one arm under Hux’s waist, and gently wrapping his hand over Hux’s throat, just resting, not exerting any pressure, Father Ben folded himself over Hux. Barely frotting against him, the priest contented himself with digging his nose into nape of Hux’s neck to inhale the scent of his skin. He smelt of salt--salt from his sweat, salt from his tears--and Father Ben lapped at it like a libation. “Amen,” he breathed, and placed a small buss against where he had bitten Hux’s earlobe earlier.

 

But the moment was ruined by a knock on Father Ben’s office door.

 

“Excuse me, Father? The Congregation is waiting for mass,” came the muffled voice from the other side.

 

Father Ben swore, Hux’s skin swallowing the invective where the priest’s lips were pressed against him.

 

“I will be there in a moment, I’m just having difficulty with my vestments this morning.”

 

“I absolve you of your Sins in the name of the Father,” a fevered, fervent roll of Father Ben’s hips, “the Son,” another roll, “and the Holy Spirit.”

 

“Amen,” Hux choked out.

 

“Go in Peace, my child,” the Priest concluded before scrambling off of Hux and behind his changing screen.

 

It took Hux a moment to pick himself up off of Father Ben’s desk. Now that the euphoria of the post-orgasmic endorphin rush had subsided somewhat, he could really feel each of the welts on the back of his legs, but the more pressing matter was the sticky, shameful mess rapidly cooling in his pants. There wasn’t opportunity enough to clean himself of his Sin--hah, the irony that he would Sin before the Lord in his own House in such a manner--so he would just have to grimace and bear it.

 

“Th--” Hux found that his voice was too raspy to speak just yet, so he cleared his throat and swallowed a couple of times before trying again. “Thank you, Father.”

 

Hux didn’t run out of the office, that would have been ungainly. As he had attempted to straighten his disheveled uniform, he had also gathered the last vestiges of his dignity and wrapped them around himself like a shroud, affecting a countenance of a confidence that he did not feel. He took his usual position in the front of the pews, posture impeccable even if the rest of him was hardly immaculate.


	5. Chapter 5

Contrary to his typical form, Ben was not pacing as he preached today. Usually, he did it to help assuage his nerves. The space for grand, sweeping gestures, and wild gesticulations did wonders to belie the skittering feeling he felt just under his skin. The additional actions helped him work out this nervous energy, and hone his focus so that he could provide the best address that he could. Not that the parishioners cared half a whit, but it was important to  _ Ben _ that he did his best to spread the Word of the Lord despite his myriad anxieties.

 

But not today. Today, he remained vigil in the pulpit, tightly clenching the sides of the lectern and refusing to look up from his readings. Refusing, mostly, to look at one member of his congregation in particular, and the hyperawareness of his presence that had nefariously installed itself within him. Hux was looking at him. Of course he was. Ben was the one giving mass, and Hux was in the congregation, so of course Hux was going to be looking at him.

 

But there was still a quiet paranoia, cloying like tar, ready to either suffocate him or with  _ just _ the right set of circumstances, burn him alive. There was the quiet paranoia that Hux was judging him, and Ben simultaneously wanted some way into Hux’s mind, some way to read his thoughts about him, that dreadful insistent curiosity that wanted to  _ know _ , and didn’t. He didn’t want to know what Hux was thinking of him, because what if it was something unflattering?

 

Even worse, what if, after all the events that had transpired, it was something  _ not _ unflattering? That even after Ben had abused his authority and Hux’s trust in him, Hux still thought him to be a good person, worthy of respect? The thought made Ben feel twisted and wretched.

 

Hux was undoubtedly looking at Ben, but he was refusing to look back at Brendol Hux the Second.  _ Seventeen year-old _ Brendol Hux the Second. Who was a student in his congregation. A seventeen year-old student, who was eleven years his junior. A member of his parish who was eleven years his junior.

 

A member of his parish who was so unimpeachable that even with the bruises that had surely bloomed on the backs of his thighs, his posture was still impeccable. Ben didn’t even need to look up from the Good Book to see that his back would be straight and his shoulders squared, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Ben didn’t need to look up to see the  _ conviction _ in Hux’s eyes. 

 

So, instead, he looked down at the Bible before him, longing, hoping--no,  _ yearning _ \--to somehow decipher some deeper meaning within the Word of God to help provide him with counsel on the subject of Brendol Hux the Second. His fingers twitched with the urge to flick through the delicate parchment of the geriatric Bible, to rifle through the hand-written pages edged with gold leaf, to fiddle with the frayed ribbon of the bookmark as he searched for it.

 

But as ambiguous as translations could be, there would be no secret meaning to be found within the pages of the Bible on the subject of Brendol Hux the Second, who was only mere metres away but so unapproachable, so  _ untouchable _ . Feisty Brendol Hux who had a spirit as fiery as his hair, so full of fervour and zeal. A little shit, if  Ben let himself be honest, but he was a little shit so full of  _ life _ , and it was Ben’s job as a priest to help guide him to his fullest potential.

 

Something dropped out of the pit of his stomach at that thought. So much potential to learn, to be gently shaped and moulded, or to be crudely carved into the man that he could be. Hux had the potential to be such a  _ good _ man, far better than himself.

 

Brendol Hux the Second was a seventeen year-old with the world before him, and Ben was a twenty-eight year old man with no virtue but penitence borne out of obligation. His commitment to the cloth, his dedication to the Divinity of the Lord were only means to repay a debt, and his very “devotions” desecrated the very institution he had sworn to uphold. The Lord may have been his Shepherd, but he very much  _ did _ want Hux.

 

He wanted to take Hux to bed--not in any real sordid sense. He just wanted to feel the comfort of a warm, willing body in his arms. A body who  _ wanted _ to be in his arms, rather than in his wallet. He wanted to fall asleep with his nose nuzzled into the nape of Hux’s neck, and wake up pressed against him, pressing skin against skin.

 

He wanted an anchor, someone to ground him in the present so that he wouldn’t be as tethered to the traumatic tragedy of his past. Hux, too, was a broken soul. Ben could see it in his eyes sometimes, when he thought that nobody was looking. Together, maybe, they could find some sort of solace. 

 

The Introductory Rites flew by on autopilot, Ben occasionally trying to subtly wipe his sweaty palms on his thighs, but Ben stumbled for a moment when he reached the Liturgy of the Word. Suddenly the sermon that he had previously prepared seemed so  _ inadequate _ , and Ben felt the selfish need for Hux to understand. To understand  _ him _ , that he wouldn’t let himself have Hux, that he would have to content himself with living vicariously through this vexatious vice that Ben had in him.

 

His mind raced in a million different directions all at once. What would be the best way to do that? Ben didn’t want Hux feeling like it was  _ his _ fault, when it was anything but. The fault, the blame, lay entirely on himself. He should know better. He  _ did _ know better, so it was up to him to act on his knowledge of what was right.

 

But how could he explain this all to Hux? How could Ben make him understand?

 

It was a split-second decision, because if he had let himself ruminate on it any further, Ben would have second and third-guessed himself, leading to an embarrassingly awkward silence in front of his congregation. It was a split second decision, but he decided to change his choice of scripture for the First Reading.

 

“Today we will have a reading from the Song of Songs.”

 

_ My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening; _

_ my heart began to pound for him. _

_ I arose to open for my beloved, _

_ and my hands dripped with myrrh, _

_ my fingers flowing with myrrh, _

_ on the handles of the bold. _

_ I opened for my beloved, _

_ but my beloved had left; he was gone. _

_ My heart sank at his departure. _

_ I looked for him but did not find him. _

_ I called him but he did not answer. _

 

It was a rather risqué choice of passage for a sermon, and quite  _ risky _ with all of the innuendo contained within such a short excerpt. Thrust. Pound. Hux was a clever boy--no, that was patronising. Hux was a clever  _ young man _ , and Ben was sure that Hux would be able to understand that the passage had been directed at him. Ben felt open, vulnerable, baring himself to Hux in front of the entire congregation like this.

 

His breath was coming more quickly, and shallower now, and he had to make a conscious effort to regulate it. But he couldn’t do anything about the tension thrumming along his nerves, tightening his muscles and almost paralyzing him. He was still reticent about looking up at his congregation so he couldn’t know for sure whether or not his message had met its mark, but he had Faith. Faith that Hux would understand while the subtext fell on the deaf ears of the rest of his parishioners.

 

Ben’s heart pounded for his beloved, the admiration and adoration for Hux carried within his veins giving him life as much as the blood contained within. He most certainly  _ arose _ for his beloved, which was why he was standing behind his pulpit. Even the thick material of his loose hanging cassock was not sufficient to conceal the extent of his ardor, so, instead, he used the physical barrier to erect a metaphorical one, separating his shame from the prying eyes of his congregation. Separating Hux from his Sin.

 

His Sin, his  _ shame _ in letting his mind wander to what it would feel like having Hux drip from his hands. Sticky and salty, yet at once a sweeter, more precious libation than the purest myrrh, than manna itself… Or, perhaps it would be his beloved’s fingers flowing with  _ his _ oblation, anointing Hux like an absolution. It would be such a wonderful sight, seeing streaks of his seed on the pale skin of Hux’s face, clinging to his lashes and dripping from his lips to be lapped up at by his tongue, coalescing into pearlescent beads around his neck reminiscent of Ben’s rosary still hanging around him. 

 

It would be such a wonderful sight seeing himself dripping from Hux’s swollen rim, slick with his spend and spit both. He would leak out of Hux, no matter how well Hux tried to clench and keep Ben’s offerings inside. He would seep down the inside of long, pale thighs decorated with a smattering of love bites. Would Hux enjoy being debased and defiled in such a manner? Probably not. Hux would be just as commanding prostrate on his hands and knees as he was in every other aspect of life, demanding of nothing less than exaltation and adulation.

 

The Lord may be Ben’s God, and he would take no false idols, but nothing in his reverence and veneration of Hux would be  _ false _ . Ben would open his heart to his beloved to the point where he was so utterly consumed by his passion for Hux that the internal inferno would subsume him.

 

Ben would open his body to his beloved. His mouth, his ass, his very  _ veins _ , if that was what Hux desired. But if Hux desired absolutely nothing from Ben, or desired to have absolutely nothing to do with Ben, then he would abide by Hux’s wishes.

 

Ben chanced a quick glance over at Hux. Well, it was  _ supposed _ to only be a quick glance before Ben went on to making eye contact with the cantors to inform them of the change of pstalm, but Hux’s gaze had a gravity that enraptured and ensnared Ben. He didn’t know what he would see in Hux’s gaze; he equally hoped and dreaded seeing his affections reciprocated, resigning himself to the probability that it would be ire. But what Ben saw even just the briefest flash of destroyed him more thoroughly than Sodom and Gomorrah of old had been: what Ben saw in Hux’s eyes was disinterest, even  _ boredom _ . His face was an impassive mask save for a slight downwards curl of Hux’s lips--just barely a pinch in the corner of his mouth.

 

Suddenly, all of the air in Ben’s lungs had been forced out, and wasn’t that funny considering that it was Hux who was adorned with bruises from where Ben had asphyxiated him earlier. Ben did his best to suppress the cascade of emotions, the cascade of  _ Sin _ within him. There was pride over the physical proof that he had possessed Hux, even if for a mere moment, and there was greed to see his marks left all over Hux, claiming him as his own. But mostly, there was lust.

 

How he lusted over Brendol Hux the Second. He hadn’t ever felt a desire this strong before, not even during his sexual awakening when he had been Hux’s age. He hadn’t ever felt a desire this strong before for any of his… partners, or almost-maybes. Shame wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the  _ ignominy _ of throwing the magnificent magnanimity of the Lord’s Salvation of him years hence, back when he was just a lost and confused young man, back in His face by risking an eternity spent in perdition to hear his name uttered on Hux’s lips just  _ once _ like a benediction.

 

He flicked his eyes insouciantly away from Hux over to the cantors. If Hux wanted to pretend like nothing had transpired between the two of them, well, and the Lord, in the Sanctity of Confession, then Ben would pretend, too. He could pretend that everything was fine, he could pretend that he wasn’t having a panic attack while giving mass, and that his heart rate and breathing were steady, that his hands were dry and not clammy.

 

“Would you please begin chanting Psalm 6?”

 

_ Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger _

_ or discipline me in your wrath. _

 

Okay, but not without one last parting shot, apparently.

 

Ben let the echoes of the choir’s voices wash over him, resonating throughout his body much like they were reverberating throughout the chapel. It gave him the opportunity to collect his thoughts, to try and calm himself down. He knew, rationally, that there was no reason for him to be having a panic attack right now. But, of course, the cognitive dissonance between  _ knowing _ that and being unable to end it just exacerbated the entire matter.

 

Being so conscious of his breathing, of his heart rate, of seemingly every muscle in his body, of every thought flitting through his head, the eyes of every congregation member being on him… it was utterly exhausting.

 

So, it was almost a relief that that he had devoted himself so entirely and so  _ utterly _ that he could hear his own thoughts sung back to him in the form of a Psalm.

 

_ Lord, indeed, please do not rebuke me. I know that what I feel is wrong. I see what I must do but find I cannot do it. I am being torn apart, _ Ben thought to himself.

 

Because it  _ was _ wrong. Young Brendol Hux was just that, he was young, and still so innocent. Yet, Ben had been remiss in his role as a shepherd of the Lord and led the little lost lamb into Temptation. He had been placed into a position of authority as a priest, into a position of trust, and he had abused it. Ben would prostrate himself before Hux in penitence, but not before he castrated himself for the Lord in capitulation. He just needed the Lord to deliver him from Sin, so that he may lead Hux away from temptation.

 

_ Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint; _

_ heal me Lord, for my bones are in agony. _

_ My soul is in deep anguish. _

_ How long, Lord, how long? _

 

It felt like a lifetime ago--no, it  _ was  _ a whole different lifetime ago, back when he hadn’t been Father Ben but Kylo Ren the bare knuckle boxer--but he still felt it in his bones. Back then, he had been young and foolish and feckless, with not a fear in the world. He had no fear of a righteous reckoning, nor of recrimination by his peers. Back then, he had left his home and his family with nothing but what he could fit into a knapsack on his back in an act of rebellion, convinced in his invincibility and immortality in the way that only youth can be so certain.

 

The harsh nature of reality had seen to shattering his carefully cultivated illusions, though, when his sternum was shattered. He had been totally unprepared, showing up to the fight drunk on some scotch he had pilfered from a clergyman that he had passed on the streets, and refusing to yield the fight until he was forced to by blacking out from the pain.

 

But his chest was not the only part of him to have been broken throughout his torrid, tempestuous career. He had broken several of his ribs, some multiple times, to be sure, but he had also broken bones in his hands, and his  _ face _ . He had given up trying to set his nose straight after the second time that it was broken in a fight. But he had found it quite easy to give up his vanity when the only people who propositioned him were prostitutes or groupies.

 

That had been nearly… oh, nine years ago, by his reckoning. Nine years ago, when Snoke had swept him off of his feet like a knight in cloth armor. Yet Ben still felt every break that wasn’t set right, that didn’t heal right, to this day. It was almost a decade on, and yet he still had to bear the burdens, the scars of his hubris. But for how much longer? Had his pain not been penitence enough?

 

_ I am worn out from my groaning. _

 

Lately, a seed of doubt had been growing in the gloaming of his anger. What if the Good Lord above had turned a deaf ear and a blind eye to his struggles? What if Ben just couldn’t get through to him due to the corruption of the Church? What if Ben would be able to better serve Him, better seek supplication on his own?

 

The Church had given him the support that he needed at that time of his life, but that time was long past. It was not providing him with the counsel that he was beseeching, entreating for. But how much longer would he have to search for it?

 

He had long ago devoted himself to the Lord, offering a lifetime of servitude in restitution for having saved his immortal soul from the insidious clutches of Snoke’s promises. Now that he was older, Ben could see them for what they had been-naught but lies and jests. But at the time, they had seemed so sweetly seductive, and he found himself deceived by the smoke and beguiled by the mirrors.

 

_ All night long I flood my bed with weeping _

_ and drench my couch with tears. _

 

It took Ben far too long to realise that the Psalm had ended, and that the congregation were impatiently waiting for him to proceed with the Second Reading. In fact, his reminiscent reverie was only broken when Hux coughed primly into his fist. It was almost like a moment out of a rom-com when Ben’s eyes snapped up to meet Hux’s where he was sitting in the front row of the pews, only for his attention to be diverted by the glimmering glint of light reflecting off of  _ his Grandfather’s _ rosary hanging heavy on the pale flesh of Hux’s throat.

 

Was it sacrilegious of him to compare the ring of bruises around Hux’s neck to the wreath of thorns that Christ had worn upon his head? Probably. No, most definitely. But the poetic parallels were striking.

 

The bruises were shaped  _ perfectly _ like the beads, and blooming bright against his pallid flesh. They were proprietary, possessive marks, not that unlike the love bites that Ben wanted to mark Hux with. Well, the Lord does love all of His children. It just seemed that in Hux’s case it was a bit more visible.

 

Once again, Hux coughed. Once again, Ben’s eyes snapped up. He had only been staring for a moment, but it had been long enough for murmurs of dissent to flourish amongst his parishioners. Blushing, Ben cleared his own throat as he looked down to the Scripture before him.

 

The words were swimming on the page, dancing around and jumbling themselves up so that Ben wouldn’t have been able to read them, even if he had managed to get his eyes to focus on the ink. He would have to settle for reciting a parable from rote that he was more comfortable with.

 

Ben had the overwhelming urge to sweep his hands through his hair, but it would mess up his bun, and fixing it would waste more time. He settled for flexing them again and gripping the sides of the lectern even more tightly. He wanted to take a deep breath to steel himself, but he was worried that with the way that something in his chest was clenching tightly with the inscrutable pressure of anxiety, he would induce a coughing fit. 

 

“Now I shall read from the Holy Gospel according to Matthew.” Each word that Ben eked out past the crushing weight of his panic attack felt like a pebble slung from David against Goliath, and by the end, he found himself bolstered.

 

_ Then some Pharisees and teachers of the law came to Jesus from Jerusalem and asked, ‘Why do your disciples break the tradition of the elders? They don’t wash their hands before they eat!’ _

 

_ Jesus replied, and why do you break the command of God for the sake of your tradition? For God said, ‘Honor your father and mother’ and ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’ But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is ‘devoted to God,’ they are not to ‘honor their father or mother’ with it. Thus you nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition. You hypocrites! Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you: _

 

_ ‘These people honor me with their lips,  _

_ but their hearts are far from me. _

_ They worship me in vain; _

_ their teachings are merely human rules.’ _

 

_ Jesus called the crowd to him and said, ‘Listen and understand. What goes into someone’s mouth does not defile them, but what comes out of their mouth, that is what defiles them.’ _

 

_ Then the disciples came to him and asked, ‘Do you know that the Pharisees were offended when they heard this?’ _

 

_ He replied, ‘Every plant that my heavenly Father has not planted will be pulled up by the roots. Leave them; they are blind guides. If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a pit.’ _

 

_ Peter said, ‘Explain the Parable to us.’ _

 

_ ‘Are you still so dull’ Jesus asked them. ‘Don’t you see that whatever enters the mouth goes into the stomach and then out of the body? But the things that come out of a person’s mouth come from the heart, and these defile them. For out of the heart come evil thoughts--murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. These are what defile a person; but eating with unwashed hands does not defile them.’ _

 

Immediately after having finished reciting the parable, Ben launched straight into his homily, interrupting the cantors beginning the Alleluia, and bypassing the Gospel Proclamation. But his heartbeat and breathing were rapid, his palms were clammy and his knees week, and Ben just wanted this sermon to be over and done with, professionalism be damned. He was afraid to look over at Hux, his earlier burst of confidence depleted, knowing what he would find on Hux’s face.

 

Scandal. Betrayal. Disgust.

 

It was disingenuous to try and convince himself that he didn’t care what Hux thought of him, because it was a blatant lie. Ben held Hux’s regard in high esteem, and he needed to show Hux that Ben held  _ him _ in high esteem by not condescending to pontificate some pointless catechism. Ben actively sought out Hux’s gaze, silently imploring him to understand what he was saying.

 

“So, you see, Sin isn’t something passive. It is not something that you take into yourself. Rather, it is something active that you do unto others. The one who is defiled is not the one who is at fault, instead it is the blind trying to lead the blind, those who are placed in a position of authority and abuse their power for their own personal ends. It is they who need to fear the Lord’s reckoning, his rebuke and revenge. It is the man who leaves his lover behind, who leaves the heartache in his wake who deserves to weep in penance.”

 

He nearly trailed off at the end of the Homily, unsure as to whether he wanted to laugh or cry and how steadfastly  _ stoic _ Hux had remained throughout his address. He had remained perfectly composed, face bare of all emotion save for the zeal in his eyes.

 

No, not zeal.  _ Pity _ . That was even worse.

 

  
Unable to bear being looked at in such a way, Ben turned and walked to the altar where his surplice and stole were awaiting him, and began to prepare for the Liturgy of the Eucharist.


	6. Chapter 6

Sitting in the front pews meant that Hux was among the first to receive the Holy Sacrament, which was both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because he was afraid that his shaking legs would belie his controlled facade and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before his composure cracked and he embarrassed himself in front of the congregation by losing his equilibrium. It was a curse because, really, Hux wanted absolutely nothing more than for this service to be over before he did something drastic like kiss or punch Father Ben--or both. Every moment spent in such close proximity to the priest was the sweetest torture, with his stupid face and stupid smile and his stupid hair.

 

Hux, held aloft by a bravado that was as blatantly artificial as Mr. Kelly’s biceps, walked towards where Father Ben was waiting with the Communion wafers. Even when he sank to his knees-surprisingly gracefully--he kept his upper lip stiff and his chin held high. Hux kept his gaze even, even as Father Ben placed the Communion wafer on his tongue, even as Hux closed his lips around the priest’s fingers. It was a liberty that he hadn’t meant to take, not initially. But Father Ben had displayed such profound emotional intimacy, baring himself in front of the congregation like that, that Hux felt the need bare his own throat, so to speak. He felt the need to reciprocate the priest’s blind leap of faith to show that it wasn’t misplaced in him.

 

Hux closed his eyes when he heard Father Ben’s little sharp intake of breath. It was barely more than a gasp, but it inspired all manner of lascivious thoughts. What kind of sounds would Father Ben make with Hux’s fingers on his kin, grabbing and groping, squeezing and scratching? What kind of sounds would he make with Hux’s  _ lips _ on his skin, kissing and suckling, nipping and nibbling with just the faintest hint of teeth? But most of all, Hux wondered what his name would sound like, carried on Father Ben’s breathless voice. Would it sound like an invective?

 

_ Fuck! Hux! _

 

Or would it sound like an invocation?

 

_ Fuck, Hux _ … 

 

Would the rest of Father Ben’s skin feel as hot as his fingers did on Hux’s tongue? Hux would kiss every square centimetre of the priest’s skin, just to taste it. Then he’d go over it all once more just to make sure that he hadn’t missed any mole, any freckle, any scar that adorned the priest’s skin.

 

Hux opened his eyes as he pulled his mouth off of Father Ben’s fingers with an obscene  _ pop _ . The priest choked on his ‘amen,’ quickly turning to the next person to receive Communion. The weight of the wafer was a comfort on his tongue as he waited for Father Ben to return with the Communion wine, but it was bland and tasteless, and Hux craved lap at the bitter salty tang of sweat on Father Ben’s skin when receiving the priest’s body in a not-so Holy Communion.

 

Hux tried to remind himself of how blasphemous such a thought was, to compare Father Ben to the Son of God in such a heretical manner, that by doing so he was risking the Lord’s rebuke, but chastising himself did nothing to chasten his libido. It was just far too tempting a prospect,  _ Ben _ was far too tempting.

 

He had been hurt when Father Ben had so injuriously and unceremoniously shuffled him out of his office earlier, but Hux understood why after Father Ben’s address. Mostly. He felt as though he was doing Hux wrong, and Hux was desperate to show him that wasn’t the case.

 

Hux was earnestly consenting, and Father Ben had done him no wrong, had done him no Sin. If anything,  _ Hux _ had been the one pressuring  _ him _ into a situation that he was uncomfortable with, and Hux flushed with shame. He dropped his head to look down at where his hands were folded neatly in his lap. Maybe Hux had misinterpreted Father Ben’s homily, then. Maybe it wasn’t Father Ben apologising for wronging Hux, maybe it was Father Ben trying to tell Hux that he ought to apologise to  _ him _ .

 

Of course. That had to be it. Here Father Ben was, trying to tell him that Hux had made him feel uncomfortable, and Hux was  _ fantasising _ about him, during service, no less! Hux was disgusted at himself, for degrading the priest in such a base manner.

 

By the time Father Ben returned in front of him with the Communion wine, it felt like he had been to see the entire parish. But, in truth, only really about a dozen or so members were devout enough to desire it, and it wasn’t actually the little slice of eternity that it felt like before the Father Ben was standing before him with a chalice in hand.

 

Or, rather,  _ in mouth _ , as Father Ben had begun to take a sip from the Communion wine when Hux looked up at him.

 

A small red bead was left on Father Ben’s lower lip as he lowered the chalice from his face, the little droplet red and shiny and exactly like a drop of the Blood of Christ. With unsteady, shaking fingers, Father Ben twisted the chalice around so that where he had placed his lips now faced Hux.

 

In a vague, convoluted way, it was almost like Hux’s lips were meeting Father Ben’s when he placed his lips on that same spot of the chalice that the priest’s had just left. It was also a far more intimate way than a simple  _ kiss _ , as though their connection to each-other was ratified through the Lord, as though they were joined in Christ as well as through the swapping of saliva.

 

After that, the rest of the Communion Rites and the Concluding Rites passed by in a blur. Hux was so preoccupied with the cloud of confusion cloying his mind that he barely caught when Father Ben said “go with the Grace of God.”

 

What was the purpose of the manoeuvre with the chalice? Was it to indicate that he forgave Hux?  _ Did _ he forgive Hux? If he did, then Father Ben was a much better person than he, and Hux was not deserving of his benevolence. Hux fidgeted for the first time that sermon, shifting in his seat. Once the service was over, Hux would need to leave to attend his day’s classes, but Hux rather fancied, just for a moment, that there was something in Father Ben’s tone that was beseeching him to stay.

 

He remained behind for as long as possible while the rest of the congregation aimlessly ambled out, awkwardly hanging around the pews while waiting for an opportunity to approach Father Ben. Hux was about to, when Jimmy Browne--with an  _ e _ , not to be confused with Jimmy Brown with  _ no _ e--grabbed him by his wrist. It was not nearly as comfortable as when Father Ben had grabbed his wrist, earlier, and Hux immediately yanked his hand away, sneering at him.

 

Jimmy raised his hands in supplication, though he had a callous smirk on his face.

 

“Listen, Huxley,” Jimmy began.

 

“That’s not my name,  _ Brownie _ .”

 

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Huxley. I know you want Father Ben to diddle you--”

 

“What? No, that’s preposterous,” Hux interjected, scoffing. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and it came out louder than he had intended it to. A small, fragile piece of Hux worried that it was  _ too _ loud and that it had carried over to the priest in question.

 

“Listen, I saw the way that you were eye fucking him today. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up that he wants anything more from you than your arse. He’ll toss you aside when the next virgin throws themselves at him.”

 

“And, please, pray tell, why you have such a vested interest in my virginity, which is, frankly,  _ none of your business _ .”

 

Jimmy’s smirk turned from something cruel to something crude, and it made Hux’s stomach drop.

 

“It’s not what you think it is,” Hux protested, but his voice sounded feeble even to him. He searched his mind for any possible excuse to use to qualify the statement, make it seem not quite so weak. “I just have a question about the scripture from today, that’s all.”

 

Jimmy gave a scoff of derision and walked away, flicking a rude gesture at Hux over his shoulder. Really, the entire exchange was the awakening that Hux needed. This was beyond ridiculous. He should get going to class, what was he even thinking waiting behind like this in the first place? What was he even hoping to achieve?

 

But, now was the time to do… whatever it was that he was hoping to, it was just him and Father Ben alone in the chapel. Or, okay. It was just  _ him _ . Hux looked around but couldn’t see the priest anywhere. Maybe he had gone to pack things away in the office?

 

But when Hux checked there, the office door was closed. Should he try the handle? No, if the door was closed, it was obviously a sign that Father Ben wanted to be left alone.

 

So Hux stood there, beside the door, dithering and deliberating. He could try the handle and let himself in, and the element of surprise would give him the upper hand in the exchange. But what if it was locked? If he tried the handle, and the door was locked, then Hux would lose the element of surprise and just be  _ rude _ . Well, not that just inviting himself in unannounced  _ wouldn’t _ be rude, but he’d at least have something to show for it. If the door was locked, he would be rude, to no boon, and the benefit of being able to approach Father Ben first, on  _ his _ terms, was the only reason why he was even considering being rude in the first place.

 

So, Hux should knock. It would be the polite thing to do. It would indicate that Hux was there, and hoping to approach Father Ben, and Father Ben could in turn either accept or reject his initiation of interaction. But Hux couldn’t bring himself to. His fist hovered just over the wooden planes of the door, and just a quick flick of the wrist would set his knuckles into contact. It would be a simple movement, if not for the fact that it seemed an insurmountable challenge.

 

Exasperated at himself, he moved the fist hovering over the door to pinch the bridge of his nose. What was he doing? He was going to apologise to Father Ben. Why was he apologising, though? What for?

 

He wasn’t sure anymore. All of his thoughts swirled around in his mind in an endless tangle, like a Gordian knot-cum-Moebius strip. He couldn’t keep up with his own leaps of “logic,” how did he get from Father Ben to thinking about that votive candle on his desk? How did he go from that to thinking about the overly-sweet taste of Communion wine on his tongue?

 

Suddenly his lips were dry. So he licked them, but his tongue was also dry. His entire  _ mouth _ felt dry. Even if he had managed to knock on the door, all of his words would have caught on his tongue and refused to tumble out. Or worse, they would have cascaded out in an incoherent jumble as unintelligible as his thoughts.

 

Hux sighed, his own breath ghosting over the crook of his wrist. Honestly. If he couldn’t bring himself to do this, he should stop dallying and just go about his day already. But he needed the catharsis, otherwise each day until he finally confronted Father Ben over this tenebrous…  _ thing _ , this crepuscular miasma creeping over them both and tainting their relationship, would be a Sisyphean challenge.

 

He raised his hand again to knock on the door. He lowered it again. Groaning in frustration, Hux let his head fall forwards, falling against the door with a dull  _ thud _ . Well, that worked, too.

 

But when Hux heard no response from the other side of the door, his thoughts somehow went even  _ further _ into overdrive. Maybe his head knocking against the door wasn’t actually as loud as he had thought that it was? Maybe Father Ben hadn’t heard it? He should knock again properly to be sure.

 

But what if Father Ben  _ had _ heard the knock, and was just ignoring him? Hux placed both of his hands on the door beside his head and looked around furtively. He couldn’t see anyone else around, so Father Ben must’ve been in the office. Must’ve been ignoring him.

 

He placed his ear against the door, pressing the side of his face against the cool wood in the process. He couldn’t hear anything coming from the other side of the door, couldn’t hear anything but his blood rushing in his ear. Father Ben must have been putting in a lot of effort to stay so still so that Hux wouldn’t know that he was there.

 

Hux sighed again.

 

“Listen. I’m--” He forgot where he was going with this. It was such a shame that he couldn’t just pour his emotions out directly, that he had to try to find the words to tell Father Ben how he felt. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and exhaled it right up against the grain of the wood, so that his breath condensed against the polish. “I’m sorry, okay? My behaviour was inappropriate. Unacceptable. I’m sorry, and I’ll not do it again in the future.”

 

HIs heart was beating faster now. He was nervously anticipating Father Ben’s response, Hux had made himself so vulnerable, exposing his heart so blatantly like this. But what would Father Ben do with it? Would he cradle it and coddle it in his hands, gently caring for it? Or would he take it just to hurt Hux, to step on it, throw it away?

 

Hux swallowed, but awkwardly, and he nearly choked on his own spit. He needed to hit himself on the chest a few times, and he laughed a bit maniacally once he could breathe again.

 

“I’ll not do it again, but, if given the opportunity to go back and change the way that I acted, I don’t think that I would. I know that it was wrong, and I know that it’s why you’re pretending to ignore me now. I know that it was wrong, but, still, I’ll cherish the memory forever. Once I’ve graduated and left, and years have passed and you’ve forgotten me, I promise that I will not have forgotten you. That I will not have forgotten today.”

 

Still no response. At this point, his “apology” was more for him, anyway, a search to attain absolution--no, ataraxia. He would say this last part, and then he would go about his day. About his life. He laughed again, or tried to, anyway. It came out as more of a sob. With it, he released all his tension, all his anxiety and worry about how his apology would be received. With it, came his final surrender, his final supplication.

 

“But moreover, I am sorry because I know that I should be.”

 

Hux honest-to-God  _ petted _ the door before collecting himself. There was a swagger in his step, in his  _ strut,  _ as he made his way to exit the chapel. There was an untenable lightness to his being now, as though a part of him had been removed and yet he had grown accustomed to it. There was a lightness to his being now, like he was Prometheus who had been freed and had grown accustomed to the lack of his liver.

 

He was just passing by the confessional stalls when he heard a weak sob. Hux halted immediately, because, well, it was probably just him imagining things, but he wanted to see if the sob would repeat itself.

 

It did. It was just a weak, muffled thing, as if someone was trying to hide the sound of it. But as Hux quietly approached the confessional stalls, so as to not spook whomever the occupant was, the sobbing gradually became louder. It wasn’t his place to pry, and Hux knew that, but he was still drawn towards the source. It wasn’t his place. The person crying was obviously crying in the confessional stall because they wanted privacy.

 

A choked sob followed by a meek sniffle was what cinched it. Normally, Hux wouldn’t offer consolation, but some primal, visceral  _ thing _ inside him awakened at how helpless the crier seemed.

 

Once again, Hux stalled before knocking at the door, but when he heard that sniffle again…

 

Hux must have startled whoever it was in the stall because he heard a  _ thunk _ like a body part colliding with one of the boundaries of the stall and a muttered “ow, fuck.”

 

Wait. Hux recognised that voice, that cadence.

 

“Father Ben?”

 

“Yes, my child?” The priest’s voice was rough, but either from the crying or trying to conceal his pain, Hux wasn’t sure.

 

“Are you… are you okay?” Hux wasn’t sure if it was his place to ask, either, but he had already interrupted the priest’s solitude.

 

“Yes, child. I just--”

 

“Just what?” Hux interjected when Father Ben trailed off.

 

“Just stubbed my toe.”

 

Hux scoffed at the priest’s lame excuse but didn’t question any further. If he didn’t want to volunteer why he had been crying, then Hux wouldn’t ask. They weren’t close enough for Hux to be able to ask, anyway. He remained waiting outside the stall, rocking back and forth on his feet with his hands in his pockets.

 

They weren’t close enough for Hux to be able to ask, but he still wanted to know, and he hoped that Father Ben would volunteer. Even if just to ease his own conscience that Father Ben was, in fact, okay, and that Hux could go about his business without the guilt of not checking to see. He hadn’t thought to check to see if his father was okay, and the next time that Hux saw him, his father was hanging from the rafters in the chapel’s basement. He hadn’t thought to check then, and he bore the guilt from it even two years on.

 

The tense silence was broken by another sob from the priest.

 

“Father Ben?”

 

“...Hux? You’re still here?”

 

“Yes.” But that answer felt too short… too  _ terse _ , and he hastened to qualify it. “I wanted to give you back your rosary.”

 

“Oh. Just… Just leave it on my--”

 

“Your office is locked, I can’t leave it on your desk.”

 

“Oh.” Another choked off sob, another sniffle.

 

Their relationship be damned. Even if they weren’t close enough for Hux to be able to ask if Father Ben was okay, he would, anyway.

 

“Are you… okay? Are you okay?”

 

“Of course,” was the priest’s response, but it came too slow and it was too tightly uttered to be true. But Hux didn’t do Father Ben the dishonor of throwing his doubt into the priest’s face when he was in such a plainly vulnerable state.

 

They remained at a detente, then. Hux hanging awkwardly outside of the confessional stall, half-poised to leave if Father Ben asked him to, and the priest trying to staunch his sobs. But then Father Ben sobbed Hux’s name, and it was so unlike any other time that he had ever heard his name come from the priest’s lips, so unlike how he had ever wanted it to sound like.

 

Before he realised what he was doing, his hand shot out of his pocket and wrenched open the confessional stall door and--oh. Father Ben looked absolutely  _ wretched _ . His hair was in disarray and his cheeks were blotchy and tear-stained, his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Yet he was still so  _ beautiful _ . Hux suddenly empathised with the _ Lacrimosa _ in a way that he hadn’t ever before.

 

_ Judicandus homo reus. _

_ Huic ergo parce, Deus: _

 

_ The guilty man to be judged; _

_ O God, have mercy on him. _

 

This beautiful, beautiful man before him deserved clemency, deserved compassion. So, Hux shuffled forwards so that he could reach out with his hand and gently stroke Father Ben’s cheek, catching an errant tear on his thumb.

 

But Father Ben fliched away, and Hux immediately retracted his arm… only for the priest to grasp his wrist.

 

Somehow, in the space of a second, Hux managed to mutter out “sorry,” for Father Ben to respond with “cold. I like it” and drag Hux’s hand back to his face.

 

Hux wasn’t sure if his hand was cold so much as Father Ben’s skin was  _ hot _ , the blush on his cheeks, the blood beneath his skin felt like it was boiling. Hux shuffled closer still until the toes of his shoe hit the ledge of the confessional box, and then he stepped up and suddenly he was in Father Ben’s space, leaning down and--

 

He was trailing his nose down Father Ben’s, nuzzling it with his own, and resting his forehead on the priest’s. They were just staring at each-other, breathing in each-other’s air, and then Father Ben tilted his head up just a little and--

 

They were kissing. It was just a soft, dry brush of their lips against one-another, but it was undoubtedly,  _ undeniably _ a kiss. It was kind of normal. Kind of boring, just kind of warm and kind of soft. But Father Ben sighed into the kiss, and nuzzled Hux’s cheek while moving his hands to span his lower back. They were so  _ big,  _ and so  _ heavy _ , resting just above the swell of his buttocks. It was electrifying, exhilarating, and Hux craved  _ more _ . That small point of contact was addictive and he needed to feel himself pressed completely against the priest, needed to feel  _ Ben _ pressed against  _ him _ .

 

So without any further thought, Hux clambered up to straddle the priest’s lap. In the small space of the confessional stall, it was constricting and confining, but what he was lacking in manoeuverability he made up for in intimacy. Hux dug his nose into the little space right behind Father Ben’s ear and Father Ben bucked up, bucked up into Hux, rubbing their cocks together and--

 

“Oh, God,” Ben groaned. It was a sentiment that Hux agreed with wholeheartedly. The friction was a rapturous ecstasy unlike any he had ever known… He was well-acquainted with his own hand, he knew the pleasure of feeling something rubbing against his cock but…  _ God _ , indeed. His hand could never,  _ would _ never compare to the feeling of Ben rubbing against him like this. It was distracting, it was maddening, the way that it set him aflame. His skin was burning, his blood was boiling, he was hot, so so hot, and he could feel a bead of sweat drip down the back of his neck and it was only one thrust!

 

He was so close to coming undone already, he could already see the penumbra of the precipice and he wanted to fall, he wanted to fall with  _ Ben _ , not the priest, but the  _ man _ who was so warm and just made him even hotter, stoking the flames of his near-fanatic fervour.

 

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Hux murmured, gently scoring the priest’s ear lobe with his teeth. He was close, so close already and he couldn’t string together a coherent thought and the words just came tumbling out. If he could see himself he would have hated himself, the way that his hands were tightly clutching Ben’s cassock and he was panting right against his neck. He would have hated how inelegant, how uncomposed he was, all of his higher cognitive functions lost in lieu of his search for pleasure.

 

“Oh, God!” Ben exclaimed, moving his hands from Hux’s back to his shoulders, to try and gently prise him off of his lap. “Shit.  _ Fuck _ . I’m… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-- _ Christ _ .”

 

Hux whined between his teeth, squeezing Ben’s thighs between his own and gripping his cassock even more tightly.

 

“No, please. So close.”

 

“Fuck,” groaned Ben, throwing his hands up before tugging his own hair in exasperation. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity fucking fuck fuck  _ fuck. _ ”

 

Hux vaguely noted the increasing emphaticness with which Ben was speaking, the last shred of his higher processes realising and noting his distress.

 

“Sh, no. No, it’s okay. Shh.”

 

“No, it’s not  _ okay _ , it’s--FUCK!”

 

Ben shoved at Hux again. Not enough to dislodge him, but he got the point. Hux trailed his nose along the lines of Ben’s jaw, up to his lips, and kissed him again.

 

“Please, let me do this for you.”

 

“Let you do what?” The feel of Ben’s lips right against his… well, it was almost enough to make Hux forget about his plan.

 

_ Almost _ . Hux slid off of Ben to kneel at his feet in a poetic reflection of how Ben had been kneeling at Hux’s feet just that morning. _ That morning _ . It had only been a couple of hours and yet so much had happened.

 

Hux’s hands were shaking as he fiddled with the buttons of Ben’s cassock, and a shadow fell over him when Ben leaned forwards to grasp his wrists again…

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Hux looked up, staring directly at Ben. His eyes were wide with surprise and confusion, pupils blown in arousal with a tear still in the corner…

 

Hux gently tugged one of his hands out of Ben’s to swipe at the tear with his thumb, and brought it to his lips. He gracelessly smeared it over them before tilting his head to bring his lips to Ben’s and this time was even more awkward than the first. The angle was wrong, and Ben wasn’t reciprocating, just letting Hux press his lips against his. But then Hux pressed more insistently, and Ben brought his free hand to the side of Hux’s face and pressed back and they were kissing in earnest, now.

 

The angle was still awkward, though, and bordering on painful now.

 

“Please,” Hux entreated, again.

 

With one final stroke of Hux’s face, one final peck on the lips, Ben dropped Hux’s other hand and leaned back again to allow Hux to continue with his task. Despite the way that his heart was rapidly pumping blood around his body and he felt warm and flushed, his fingers were still too stiff, and unbuttoning Ben’s cassock was far too difficult for such a simple task… 

 

But when, finally, Hux got up to the button right over the bulge in Ben’s vestments, again Ben halted Hux’s progress.

 

“Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”

 

Hux was afraid that his voice would break if he responded verbally, so he just hummed noncommittally and swatted Ben’s hands away.

 

“No, I need to hear you say it.”

 

“Say what? That I want your cock in my mouth? That I want to taste you, feel you on my tongue?” Honestly, it wasn’t the sexiest thing that Hux could have come up with, but he was horny and frankly kind of irritated at Ben for continuing to ask that. “Yes, I give my consent for you to fuck my throat.”

 

Oh. Oh, no. That was the wrong thing to say, it seemed, as Ben’s lip started to quiver and he started to blink rapidly. Oh  _ goddamnit _ .

 

Hux gave up trying to divest Ben of his garments, for now, stretching himself up and reaching for Ben’s face. But the priest swatted his hands away, and petulantly turned his head to the side. Hux huffed, because of  _ course _ he had to make everything more difficult than it had to be. Hux reached out for Ben’s chin to try and turn his head back, but Ben held his head steady even as his chest was shuddering with suppressed sobs.

 

Hux sighed. If Ben really didn’t want to look at Hux, he wouldn’t make him. Hux dropped his hand and sat back on his haunches, twinges of pain from the bruises on the backs of his thighs be damned, and rested his cheek on Ben’s leg, just a little bit up from his knee. He remained just like that, using Ben’s firm thigh as a pillow while snaking his hands up from underneath the cassock to massage his left calf.

 

He kneaded the muscle softly with his fingertips through Ben’s leggings, partially to help ground and soothe Ben through his crying, but mostly because Hux was too selfish to stop touching him. He held the apex in the palm of his hand and he squeezed, digging his nails gently into Ben’s flesh. They were so lean, so  _ taut _ , and Hux wondered how they could contain so much power, how they could contain enough power to have carried him bridal-style through the rain, earlier.

 

Hux considered his own calves, so thin, and underwhelming. Why would Ben ever want  _ him? _

 

Unless… Unless what Jimmy said earlier was true. No, Hux refused to believe it. Ben deserved better than to be thought of so lowly. But still, the doubt lingered, installing insidious roots. He refused to accept it as truth, but that didn’t stop Hux from thinking about it.

 

In a sudden pique of self-pity, Hux hugged Ben’s legs to him. The feeling of Ben pressed against him like that was comforting--even if he was shaking from the force of his sobs--and so, too, was the feeling of Ben’s large hand playing with his hair. When Ben scratched his scalp just  _ so _ , Hux couldn’t help but let out a little moan of pleasure.

 

But when Hux raised his head to look up at Ben following the priest’s equally embarrassing noise, Ben looked away, using his free hand to cover his face. That simply wouldn’t do.

 

“You’re so beautiful like this, and you want to hide away?”

 

“Wh-what?” Ben choked, confusedly.

 

Hux removed one of his hands from his hug of Ben’s calves and reached up to grab the wrist of the hand that Ben was using to cover his face.

 

“I said that you’re beautiful.”

 

Ben scoffed dismissively, and in it, Hux could hear pain and frustration, exasperation and despondence, all in one deceptively complex exhalation.

 

“The problem with platitudes is that when you get older, the platitudes get just as old.

 

“What? No!” But Hux’s protest fell on deaf ears.

 

“Just… just go. You’re late for class.”

 

“No.”

 

“It’s at least nine-o’clock by now, so you’re at least a half hour late for your first lesson.”

 

“I wasn’t saying no to  _ that _ , I was saying no to  _ leaving _ . No. I refuse to leave.” To emphasise his point, Hux entwined Ben’s fingers in his and gave a quick squeeze. “I  _ refuse _ .”

 

At that, all of the contrariness seemed to deflate out of Ben and he nodded in resigned acceptance. Still refusing to look directly at Hux, Ben asked that incendiary question once more.

 

“Are you sure?” It was barely more than a mumble, most of the sound swallowed by the wall of the confessional stall, and Hux could tell that it was plainly more for Ben than for him, but  _ honestly _ , he was fed up with his conviction being tested like this.

 

Hux yanked his hand out from Ben’s, and  _ that _ got Ben to look at him. In the brief second that Hux was glaring at him before he flicked his eyes away, Hux saw the flash of betrayal, of anguish, and it was nearly enough to make Hux falter.

 

Nearly. Hux might’ve hurt his feelings, but it was for a good reason. When Hux stood up, Ben nodded weakly, as if confirming something to himself, and the lack of faith in Hux shown by Ben in that one small action was incredibly offensive. Hux ought to have left him alone there and then just to spite him, and he felt a shiver of vindictive glee at the thought.

 

But, no. That just made Hux feel even guiltier. This poor man, this poor, beautiful man charity, benevolence, not maliciousness.

 

Hux would give him that in  _ troves _ , if it would help him repent for the wrong that he had wrought upon Ben.

 

Hux stepped backwards out of the confessional stall, but he was so distracted by the fly of his trousers that he misgauged the step  _ down _ and lost his balance. Almost inhumanly fast, Ben sprung forth and caught Hux by the knot of his tie, preventing him from falling flat on his ass.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled mulishly, once he was standing squarely on both feet. Ben reached down to help Hux do his fly back up, and with two sets of hands trying to do diametrically opposing tasks, it got a bit crowded. But Ben solved that problem by taking both of Hux’s wrists in one of his hands and doing his fly up with the other. Hux  _ let _ him, of course. He could have put up a token protest, some nominal resistance. But in the end, it was Hux’s choice that allowed his fly to be done up.

 

It was most definitely  _ not _ that he liked the way that Ben could subdue him, could  _ subjugate _ him so easily.

 

Once Ben completed his task and released Hux’s hands, Hux used them to push Ben back into the confessional stall. Ben had a look of hurt confusion on his face, brow furrowed slightly and biting his lip,  _ oh _ . He lapped up at a tear.

 

With Ben sitting down out of arm’s length, even with his ridiculous reach, Hux began undoing his fly. Again.

 

Ben looked like he was about to protest, but Hux put up a finger in a universal “shush” gesture, and Ben sullenly complied.

 

First the fly, then he bent down to undo his shoelaces, and really, Hux should have thought this through better, probably even doing it the other way around. Then he shucked his shoes, and his trousers, and stood upright, flexing his toes in his socks and hooking his thumbs under the waistband of--Ben’s--pants.

 

There was a moment where Hux’s resolve was wavering because he could feel his hair standing on end on the back of his legs where a cold draught touched his skin, and he wasn’t sure if he was entirely prepared to feel that against  _ more _ of him. In the end, it was Ben’s enraptured expression that was the impetus that Hux required to convince himself to proceed. It was so openly  _ appreciated _ and so  _ amazed _ . It was extremely gratifying to his ego, to be certain.

 

So he did. He took off his borrowed pants in an incredibly inelegant and ungainly fashion, exposing the rest of his lower body to the frigid air. A cold shiver ran through him and his cock twitched. But exposing himself to Ben like this,  _ for _ Ben like this, it reawakened the simmering heat deep within his belly, warming him from the inside out, and Hux did not mind the cold so much.

 

He was still so ridiculously close from before, his arousal never really dissipating even during their… dispute that he almost came just as he wrapped the underwear around his cock. It was an unusual sensation, pleasuring himself like this. The friction was… different. But the underwear were so soft and so supple that it wasn’t  _ uncomfortable _ , at least.

 

Hux wanted to watch Ben watching him get off like this, but his eyes closed as his toes twitched and his knees buckled after only a few short tugs. He was kind of disappointed. He was glad to have gotten off, to be sure. There’s always that relief as the tension is released. But he had hoped to have gotten off  _ with _ Ben.

 

Oh, well. As he carefully folded them up into a neat little square and approached Ben, reclining in the confessional stall with his legs spread wide to no doubt account for the sizeable tent in his leggings, he thought that this would have to do.

 

He had gotten off in front of an effigy of His Son, basically fellated a priest’s fingers during Communion, so might as well be hanged as a sheep as a lamb and stuff the folded underwear into the priest’s mouth while he fellated him properly in a confessional stall.


	7. Chapter 7

The underwear were…  _ pungent _ , to say the least, after two loads of spend. They tasted of the bitter, salty musk of seed, with that unique quasi-sweetness that damp cotton has. Hux crouched before Ben, directly in between his legs, and though he was eyeing the hard lines of Ben’s cock pressing against his leggings with an obvious hunger, he made no further movements.

 

Tentatively, unsure as to how Hux would react because the situation was so far from anything that Ben had ever expected, Ben reached out with one hand to stroke the side of Hux’s face while clenching the other into a tight fist on his own thigh. Hux leaned into his hand, nuzzling his wrist and placing a small kiss there. The heat of Hux’s lips against his skin pierced him all the way through, as though he was being nailed to the cross by Hux’s lips alone.

 

Ben trailed his hand down Hux’s face, tracing the line of Hux’s jaw, and wrapped his hand around Hux’s throat. It was such a small, fragile thing, and just one hand practically spanned the breadth of it. It was such a small, fragile thing, and it would take next to no pressure at all, squeezing around it…

 

But Ben didn’t squeeze, he kept trailing his hand down, using his fingers to delve under Hux’s collar and retrieve the chain of rosary beads. Ben had used them to cause Hux harm earlier, the marks still present around his neck, and Ben wanted them to cut into his own flesh the same.

 

He divested Hux of his Grandfather’s rosary, an heirloom from his war days, and dangled the chain over the tent in his leggings. Hux, ever the clever  _ nymphet _ got the hint immediately and Ben’s leggings were down around his knees, and his cock was freed before he could remove the soiled underwear from his mouth and give verbal consent.

 

Hux took the chain from Ben and moved to hold his cock steady with one hand while winding the metal rosary around the base of Ben’s shaft and his sac a few times until he was content with the tension. Ben hissed through his teeth, biting down on the underwear stuffed into his mouth.  _ Good _ . It hurt. Ben deserved it to hurt,  _ needed _ it to hurt, so that he could hone his focus.

 

With the hand that had been holding the rosary, Ben reached out to grasp the hand still around his cock. Squeezing his own around it, he directed Hux’s hand in a slow, tight drag up the shaft, giving it a cruel twist just under his circumcision scar.

 

In a far, far far  _ far _ distant part of his mind--a part  _ too _ far away to be consumed by the pleasure of having Hux’s soft, warm hand wrap around him--Ben remembered that Hux still had his foreskin. He’d be so  _ sensitive _ on the crown...

 

“Jesus  _ Christ _ ,” Ben grunted, thrusting into their joined hands even as his words were muffled by the underwear in his mouth.

 

“What was it that you said to me earlier, Father?  _ Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain _ ?” Hux had a cheeky smile on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye, and repeated the twist in the opposite direction and--oh.

 

Ben let his head fall back against the wall of the confessional stall with a  _ thunk _ as he thrust upwards again. He was so, so close from before, from the teasing of having Hux perched on his lap and his cock pressing against his own, he was so so close from earlier still, when he had the distinct pleasure of rolling his hips against Hux’s pert rear.

 

If not for the taut tension provided by the rosary beads on his too, too hot flesh, he would have come the moment that Hux swiped his thumb through the bead of translucent, pearlescent fluid that was forming at the tip of his cock. Hux used the pad of his thumb to spread it around the crown of his glans as-- _ holy fuck _ \--Ben directed Hux’s other hand to cradle his sac, showing him how to gently roll them around in his palm  _ just _ right.

 

Jerking someone else off wasn’t that different to jerking yourself off, Ben mused. The main mechanics were the same, it still had the same texture of hot, velvety skin under your hands. But it did feel a little weird, Hux was obviously more used to cocks with foreskins, with the way that he kept expecting Ben’s non-existent foreskin to retract on the downstroke of each pump.

 

Okay, it didn’t feel  _ weird _ , it hurt. Hux was pulling too sharply, his grip too tight, and too  _ dry _ . He wasn’t using the drops of moisture forming at Ben’s slit to lubricate his hand, he was just letting them coalesce and be wasted…

 

But then Hux was pressing his lips reverently to the crown of Ben’s cock and all of his concerns about Hux’s lack of technique went out the window along with his dignity as he let out a deep, protracted moan. Hux’s lips were soft and plush and luxurious, and after the company of his hand for such a terribly long score of years, the novelty was  _ exotic _ . Ben was enjoying it much, much more than he should be. This was supposed to be a  _ penitence, _ a forced attrition, but no. Ben was moaning wantonly like the Whore of Babylon, earnestly and, perhaps, even exaggeratedly.

 

But the sounds of his pleasure emboldened Hux who was kissing his way down the underside of his cock, now, tracing the vein with his lips and running his tongue along it. After the rough friction of his hand, Hux’s tongue was almost soothing, a salve at the same time that it was making his veins thrum with electric pleasure, each kittenish lap with his tongue sending another jolt of pleasure down his spine.

 

Ben, desiring to reach out and seek out an emotional connection in addition to the profoundly  _ intimate _ interaction, gently placed one of his hands on the nape of Hux’s neck. But, unfortunately, Hux seemed to completely misinterpret the gesture.

 

“Sorry,” he murmured right against Ben’s cock, the vibrations humming through him right to his core and making his cock twitch with the spark of pleasure that ran through him.

 

Apparently, Hux misinterpreted the gesture to mean that Ben wanted Hux to go from laving at his corona and glans to attempting to deepthroat him. Which didn’t go very well, at all. Hux’s throat was too tense and he gagged about halfway down Ben’s cock, and in his panic he forgot to mind his teeth when withdrawing.

 

It was like a comedy of errors, really. Hux’s teeth scraping against his cock caused the fingers threaded in Hux’s ginger trusses to tug sharply… which, in turn, caused Hux to wince, inadvertently  _ biting _ where Ben was most sensitive.

 

This time, Ben’s cry was in pain, rather than in pleasure.

 

“Ah, shit.  _ Fuck. _ I’m…” Hux trailed off, looking away and wiping his mouth.

 

Shit, fuck  _ indeed _ . Even though _ he _ was the… injured party here, Ben still felt the need to comfort and console Hux. But he had no idea as to  _ how _ . He couldn’t gather Hux in his arms and pull him into his lap, not until he had calmed down somewhat, not unless he wanted the insistent reminder of their previous activities to undermine his attempts at mollifying Hux.

 

So, embracing him was out. Perhaps a joke?

 

But about  _ what _ ? A disparaging comment about Hux’s oral prowess was definitely out… The only other things that came to mind were pithy anecdotes and Bible parables, and neither of those would be particularly appropriate, either.

 

Hux’s pride was too great for him to accept a direct conciliation, so Ben really had no idea as to how to proceed, and so the silence stretched on. The ardor in his veins didn’t lessen, though the urgentness of his arousal did as his erection subsided. The idea of what a sight he must have made, leggings down around his ankles and his Grandfather’s rosary beads around his cock while sprawled in a confessional stall… well, it made him snort, which drew Hux’s attention to him.

 

Ben took the underwear out of his mouth, and licked his lips a few times to wet them properly.

 

“You could… you could kiss it better?” Ben’s attempt at levity fell flat due to his carefully modulated tone, but the change in ambiance was palpable. The tension between them both ebbed away with Hux’s relieved sigh. He had obviously been fearing retribution, and the realisation saddened Ben. Did Hux honestly think so lowly of his composure, of his  _ control _ , to fear his rebuke?

 

The even more saddening realisation was that, well, why would Hux expect anything better? He had hardly conducted himself in an exemplary fashion. Even though Hux had said he consented, as the adult, as the  _ authority _ , it was up to Ben to disavow Hux of terrible notions like blowing your priest in a confessional stall.

 

He made to stand up and pull up his leggings again, but Hux’s hands shot out to grasp either hip.

 

Hux looked up at Ben, and he knew in that moment, that however much he knew that he should, he wouldn’t deny Hux anything. If Hux asked him to pick every olive in Gethsemane, he would. He would follow Hux with the blind faith of Abraham.

 

Hux nuzzled the juncture of his hip and his thigh, nosing towards his slowly stirring interest. Now that Ben wasn’t quite so… excited and he was standing up, the ad-hoc cage was being aided by gravity and slipping off.

 

It fell to his feet.

 

Ben ignored it when Hux tentatively pressed his mouth to his cock again. This time, Hux wasn’t as quixotic about taking him between his lips, barely just letting Ben rest on the tip of his tongue as he filled with arousal once more. This time, Hux understood what Ben meant when his hands rested on Hux’s shoulders.

 

Without the pressure of the rosary cage around his cock, all it took was a few short thrusts before Ben was flooding Hux’s mouth with his seed, and if the way that Hux had been rocking against his leg and the damp stickiness Ben felt was any indication, Hux had enjoyed himself just as much.

 

Ben had expected the aftershocks to be awkward as they went about the business of getting redressed, and then a terse “thanks” before Hux went about his day.

 

That’s what he had expected, but, instead of Hux turning away to retrieve his discarded clothing, he shyly let his head rest in the hand that Ben had moved to cradle Hux’s face with, content to just be held.

 

They remained like that for a few minutes, but Ben was far too aware of the passing of time and the knowledge that as the clock crept ever forwards, Hux was running later and later for his first class.

 

“If you get going now, you can probably make the end of your class.”

 

“I have a free first.”

 

Ben snorted, because he very well knew that Hux did not.

 

Hux’s face fit so well into his hand, though, so  _ right _ , and Ben was loth to lose the weight.

 

“Come on, get dressed. I’ll write a note for your teacher, saying we lost track of time discussing the scripture from this morning.”

 

“Can you write a note for second period, too?”

 

Ben couldn’t help but let out a rich, full-bodied  _ guffaw _ at Hux’s unmitigated pluck.

 

“Fine. But can I at least get a goodbye kiss?

 

“No.” It was extremely difficult to deny Hux’s request. It was simple, it was innocuous. It would be easy enough to oblige. How  _ desperately _ Ben wanted to oblige him, also. Every iota, every atom of his being, was calling out for him to press his lips against Hux’s. It was such a simple request and it would make the both of them so happy, but--

 

“Oh.”

 

“No, because I’m not so old that I don’t remember the… perks of adolescence. I know if I give you an inch, or rather a  _ kiss _ , you’ll take three miles. While you may be able to keep going, I’m not so spritely that I don’t need rest in between rounds, and we don’t have the time to enjoy ourselves like that.”

 

“What if I promised to be very good and go to all of my classes?”

 

“Get dressed first, and then we’ll negotiate.”

 

Hux got dressed amicably enough after that, the promise of a potential reward enough to motivate him. Ben had every intention of denying Hux’s request again after getting redressed himself, but then Ben noticed a small drop of  _ himself _ on the corner of Hux’s mouth and then the next thing he knew, he was lapping it up and licking at the seam of Hux’s lips, in a kiss decisively  _ filthier _ than any of the previous ones he had shared.

 

Ben had every intention of denying Hux’s request again, but he would deal with the consequences later. For now, he was enjoying Hux’s lips pliant against his, pressing against his in an innocently inexperienced way. For now, he was enjoying what he could before the inevitable repercussions, before the inevitable reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thus concludes the longest thing that I have ever written. what a wild ride.
> 
> this was meant to be a 6k 5+1 pwp and then, well. this happened. so, this is the end of the first arc, and I totally have plans for the next 4+1, and may one day get around to doing the thing. one day.


End file.
